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Porter  Memorial  Library,  Machias. 

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]y^^   Q^ 


e^m^Mi^t^ 


'ic-^yn 


iZ1^d^tl'}t. 


>  >      J    'J    J         >      ) 


.  ■•        .  J    J         ,•*      '    a     ;     3'    :>     J      J   J 

i   '       >  »     ,    '       '  '    9  >,         >    ',  >       >      J   ,  J 

1839. 


••  i 


•  •  •» 

•  •  • 


•  4    • 

•  •  ••  • 


THE 


GARLAND; 

FOR 

A  CHRISTMAS,  NEW-YEAR,  AND  BIRTHDAY 

PRESENT. 


"  So  take  my  flower,  and  let  its  leaves 
Beside  thy  heart  be  cherished  near, 
While  that  confiding  heart  receives 
The  thought  it  v/hispers  to  thine  ear." 


BOSTON: 

JULIUS    A.    NOBLE. 

1839. 


f\\jll 


G 


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^V" 


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PREFACJE. 


This  work  consists  of  the  choicest  pieces 
which  have  appeared  in  the  several  volumes 
of  the  Token  and  Legendary  ;  it  is  hoped  it 
may  not  be  found  unworthy  of  a  place,  by 
the  side  of  the  Annuals  and  Souvenirs  of 
the  day.  Many  of  the  articles  have  had  the 
honour  to  attract  the  attention  of,  and  extort 
praise  from  European  critics,  and  have  been 
republished  \\dth  some  eclat  in  England, 
France,  and  Germany.    Nearly  all  of  then? 


iyi64487 


iv  PREFACE. 

have  been  favourably  noticed  in  this  country, 
and  have  received  a  welcome  at  the  hands 
of  those  for  whose  pleasure  or  profit  they 
were  more  particularly  composed.  The 
editor  ventures  to  hope,  that  the  gathering  of 
these  flowers  into  a  Garland,  and  this  design- 
ed as  a  gift,  in  some  instances,  perchance, 

"fittoteU 
Of  things  that  words  can  ne'er  disclose, 
And  nou^'ht  beside  reveal  so  well," 

may  not  prove  an  unacceptable  service  to 
those  who,  at  the  same  time,  have  a  relish  for 
works  of  taste,  and  a  desire  to  cherish  the 
original  literature  of  our  country 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Gift,               .           -           -           . 

9 

The  Soldier's  Widow, 

11 

For  a  Lady's  Album,       -            -            - 

13 

Legend  of  the  Notch,             ... 

15 

Musings,             -            -            .            _ 

52 

Childhood,                  -            -            _            - 

53 

Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  an  Old  Maid, 

56 

What  is  that,  Mother  7          -            -            - 

87 

Seaman's  Widow,            .            -            - 

-        89 

Saturday  Afternoon,               -            -            . 

117 

Blind  Boy,           -            -            -            . 

-      118 

1* 

VI  CONTENTS. 

Pago 

Academic  Grove        _            .           -           -  134 

Death,    ------      136 

Surrender  of  Calais,               -            -            -  137 

Youthful  Fancies,           -            -  -      141 

Italian  Boulevard,      «                          -            -  142 

Dreams  of  Boyhood,       -            -            ,  -       148 

Prairie  on  Fire,         -            -            -            -  150 

To  a  Daughter  of  the  late  Governor  Clinton,  -       154 

Joshua  commanding  the  Sun  and  Moon  to  stand 

still,             ...           -  155 

Seabird's  Tale,          -            -            -            -  158 

Thanksgiving,    -            -            -            -  -       1G2 

Cottage  Legend,         -            -            -            -  170 

To  the  Sentmiental,        -            -            -  -       172 

A  Moonlight  Adventure,        -            -            -  181 

The  Lone  Indian,            -            -            _  -      184 

Romance  m  Real  Life,          -            -            -  198 

Connecticut  River,          .            -            -  -      265 

Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms,  Saratoga,          -  272 

Autumn  Musings,           -            -            -  -      274 

To  the  Ice  Mountain.            ...  278 


CONTENTS.  Vll 


Page 


The  Mother's  Grave,    -            -            -  -      279 

Colonel  Boone,        ....  283 

The  Fair  Pilgrim,         -            -            -  -      286 

Waiting  for  the  Harvesters,            .            .  293 

To  a  Lady,  with  a  Withered  Leaf,       -  -      295 

Voyage  of  the  Philosophers,            -            .  297 

The  Twins,       -            -            .            -  -      302 

Catskill,       .....  309 

Canvassing,       .            -            -            •  .116 

The  Sentry  Box,      ....  169 
Caroline  and  Isabel,      ....      264 

To  my  own  Portrait,            ...  10 

Biography  of  Mrs.  Hemans,     -            .  -      325 

The  Charnel  Ship,      -        -            .            .  328 


THE  GARLAND. 


THE  GIFT. 

I  COME  with  a  gift.     'Tis  a  simple  flower, 

That  perhaps  may  wile  a  weary  hour, 

And  a  spirit  within  a  magic  weaves 

That  may  touch  your  heart  from  its  simple  leaves- 

And  if  these  should  fail,  it  at  least  will  be 

A  token  of  love  from  me  to  thee. 

This  for  age.     It  will  soothe  unrest. 
And  freshen  Ufe  in  the  faintino-  breast : 
It  will  drop  a  balm  in  its  thirsty  springs. 
As  the  lark  sheds  dew  from  its  early  wings — 
'Tis  a  token  that  youth,  though  wild  and  gay, 
Will  never  turn  from  the  old  away. 


10  THE  GIFT. 

This  for  the  young.     It  vnQ.  wake  to  birth 
.  A  better  feeluiw  than  idle  rrnrth : 
It  will  stir  the  heart  to  silent  love, 
As  the  twilight  hushes  the  gentle  dove — 
'Tis  a  token  of  friendship's  secret  flow, 
The  flashing  tide  of  the  world  below 

This  for  the  loved.     It  will  take  the  place 

Of  the  thrillinor  tone  and  the  beaming  face ; 

It  will  breathe  of  words  that  have  passed  his  tongue, 

And  startle  thoughts  that  to  liim  have  sprung — 

'Tis  a  token  of  aU  the  heart  can  keep 

Of  holy  love  in  its  fountains  deep. 

So,  take  my  gift !     'Tis  a  simple  flower, 
But  perhaps  'twill  wile  a  weary  hour, 
And  the  spirit  that  its  light  magic  weaves 
May  touch  your  heart  from  its  simple  leaves — 
And  if  these  should  fail,  it  at  least  will  be 
A  token  of  love  from  me  to  thee. 


^3  ->  ->3  ^ 


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^^^'^^^-^  .^i^^^*«^ 


:blished  Tjjt  Saunders  &:  OtLejr,  Conduit  Street 


TO   MY   OWN    PORTRAIT. 


TO  MY  OWN  PORTRAIT. 

By  Mrs.  Hemans. 

How  is  it  that  before  mine  eyes, 

"While  gazing  on  thy  mien, 
All  my  past  years  of  life  arise, 

As  in  a  mirror  seen  ? 
"What  spell  within  thee  hath  been  shrined, 
To  image  back  my  own  deep  mind  ? 

Even  as  a  song  of  other  times 
Can  trouble  memory's  springs  ; 

Even  as  a  sound  of  vesper-chimes 
Can  wake  departed  things  ; 

Even  as  a  scent  of  vernal  flowers 

Hath  records  fraught  with  vanished  hours  j 

Such  power  is  thine  ! — they  come,  the  dead. 
From  the  grave's  bondage  free, 

And  smiling  back  the  changed  are  led, 
To  look  in  love  on  thee  ; 

And  voices  that  are  music  flown 

Speak  to  me  in  the  heart's  full  tone. 

Till  crowding  thoughts  my  soul  oppress, 
The  thoughts  of  happier  years, 

And  a  vain  gush  of  tenderness 
O'erflows  in  childlike  tears  j 


TO    MY    OWN    PORTRAIT. 

A  passion  which  I  may  not  stay, 
A  sudden  fount  that  must  have  way. 

But  thou,  the  while— oh !  almost  strange, 

Mine  imaged  self!  it  seems 
That  on  tliTj  brow  of  peace  no  change 

Reflects  my  own  swift  dreams  ; 
Almost  I  marvel  not  to  trace 
Those  lights  and  shadows  in  thy  face. 

To  see  thee  calm,  while  powers  thus  deep, 

Affection — Memory — Grief- 
Pass  o'er  my  soul  as  winds  that  sleep 

O'er  a  frail  aspen-leaf! 
Oh !  that  the  quiet  of  thine  eye 
Might  sink  there  when  the  storm  goes  by  ! 


Yet  look  thou  still  serenely  on, 
And  if  sweet  friends  there  be, 

That  when  my  song  and  soul  are  gone 
Shall  seek  my  form  in  thee, 

Tell  them  of  One  for  whom  'twas  best 

To  flee  away  and  be  at  rest ! 


THE    soldier's   WIDOW.  11 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIDOW. 


BY  N.  P.  WILLIS. 


Wo  for  my  vine  clad  home ! 
That  it  should  ever  be  so  dark  to  me, 
With  its  bright  threshold,  and  its  whispering  tree  . 

That  I  should  ever  come, 
Fearing  the  lonely  echo  of  a  tread 
Beneath  the  roof-tree  of  my  glorious  dead  ! 

Lead  on  !  my  orphan  boy  ! 
Thy  home  is  not  so  desolate  to  thee — 
And  the  low  shiver  in  the  linden  tree 

May  bring  to  thee  a  joy  ; 
But,  oh,  how  dark  is  the  bright  home  before  thee, 
To  her  who  with  a  joyous  spixt  bore  thee  ! 

Lead  on !  for  thou  art  now 

My  sole  remaining  helper.     God  hath  spoken, 

And  the  strong  heart  I  lean'd  upon  is  broken  ; 

And  I  have  seen  his  brow. 
The  forehead  of  my  upright  one,  and  jusl^ 
Trod  by  the  hoof  of  battle  to  the  dust. 


■s«s: 


12  THE    soldier's    WIDOW. 

He  will  not  meet  thee  there 
Who  blest  thee  at  the  eventide,  my  son ! 
And  when  the  shadows  of  the  night  steal  on, 

He  wiU  not  call  to  prayer. 
The  lips  that  melted,  giving  thee  to  God, 
Are  in  the  icy  keeping  of  the  sod ! 

Ay,  my  own  boy  !  thy  sire 
Is  with  the  sleepers  of  the  vaUey  cast. 
And  the  proud  glory  of  my  life  hath  past 

With  his  high  glance  of  fire. 
Wo  that  the  Unden  and  the  vine  should  bloom, 
And  a  just  man  be  gather" d  to  the  tomb ! 

Why — bear  them  proudly,  boy ! 
It  is  the  sword  he  girded  to  his  tlugh — 
It  is  the  helm  he  wore  in  victory — 

And  shall  we  have  no  joy  ? 
For  thy  green  vales,  oh  Switzerland,  he  died ! — 
will  forget  my  sorrow  in  my  pride ! 


A 


FOR   A   lady's   album  13 

FOR  A  LADY'S  ALBUM. 

BY  JOHN   PIERPONT. 


Grace  is  deceitful,  and  beauty  vain. — Solomon. 

Oh,  say  not,  wisest  of  all  the  kings 

That  have  risen  on  Israel's  throne  to  reign ! 

Say  not,  as  one  of  your  wisest  things, 
That  grace  is  false,  and  beauty  vain. 

Your  harem  beauties  resign !  resign 

Their  lasci-sious  dance,  their  voluptuous  song ! 

To  your  garden  come  forth,  among  things  di\ine, 
And  own  you  do  grace  and  beauty  wrong. 

Is  beauty  vain  because  it  will  fade  1 

Then  are  earth's  green  robe  and  heaven's  light  Tain ; 
For  this  shall  be  lost  in  evening's  shade. 

And  that  in  winter's  sleety  rain. 

But  earth's  green  mantle,  pranked  with  flowers, 
Is  the  couch  where  life  with  joy  reposes ; 

And  heaven  gives  down,  with  its  light  and  showers, 
To  regale  them,  fruits ;  to  deck  them,  roses. 

2 


14  FOR    A    lady's   album. 

And  while  opening  flowers  in  such  beauty  spreaa, 

And  ripening  fruits  so  gracefully  swing, 
Say  not,  O  king,  as  you  just  now  said, 

That  beauty  or  grace  is  a  wortliless  thing. 

This  willow's  lunbs,  as  they  bend  in  the  breeze 

The  dimpled  face  of  the  pool  to  kiss  ; 
Who,  that  has  eyes  and  a  heart,  but  sees 

That  there  is  beauty  and  grace  in  this  ! 

And  do  not  these  boughs  all  whisper  of  Him, 
,  Whose  smile  is  the  light  that  in  green  arrays  them ; 
Who  sitteth,  in  peace,  on  the  wave  they  skim. 

And  whose  breath  is  the  gentle  wind  that  sways  them  ? 

And  are  not  the  beauty  and  grace  of  youth. 
Like  those  of  this  \\illow,  the  work  of  love  ? 

Do  they  not  come,  like  the  voice  of  truth. 

That  is  heard  all  around  us  here,  from  above  7 

Then  say  not,  vvisest  of  all  the  kings 

That  have  risen  on  Israel's  throne  to  reign ! 

Say  not,  as  one  of  your  wisest  things. 
That  grace  is  false,  and  beauty  vain. 


LEGEND    OF   THE    NOTCH.  15 


LEGEND  OF  THE  NOTCH. 


BY    SARAH    J.    HALE. 


"  He  hewed  the  dark  old  woods  away, 

And  gave  the  virgin  fields  to  the  day; 

And  the  gourd,  and  the  bean,  beside  his  door, 

Bloom'd  where  their  flowers  ne'er  opened  before; 

And  the  maize  stood  up,  and  the  bearded  rye 

Bent  low  in  the  breath  of  an  unknown  sky." — Bryant. 

However  we  may  boast  of  our  advances  in 
knowledge,  and  improvements  in  the  arts,  since 
the  days  of  our  fathers,  the  first  settlers  in  New- 
England,  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  we  have 
advanced  in  the  knowledge  of  our  duties  towards 
heaven,  or  in  the  art  of  living  more  happily  on 
earth.  Abundance  does  not  alv/ays  bring  con- 
tent, nor  security  peace.  The  passion  for  exces- 
sive wealth,  always  the  ruling  one  in  an  age  of 
speculation  and  trade,  has  a  far  more  witherino- 
influence  on  the  tender  and  kindly  feelings  of  our 
nature,  those  soft  emotions  whose  virtuous  indul- 
gence makes  so  large  a  portion  of  the  heart's  pure 


16  LEGEND    OF   THE   NOTCH. 

happiness,  than  have  dangers,  or  privations,  or 
even  poverty.  That  devotedness  to  one  dear  ob- 
ject which  constitutes  the  romance  of  love,  is  not 
cherished  where  fortune  is  considered  an  indispen- 
sable ingredient  in  the  marriage  contract ;  nor  is 
the  domestic  miion  of  such  cemented  by  that 
mutual  confidence,  those  kind,  yet  quiet  atten- 
tions, and  reciprocal  sacrifices  to  promote  the  hap- 
piness of  each  other,  which  cause  so  much  of  the 
real  felicity  of  wedded  life ;  the  felicity  arising 
from  the  certainti/ o^heing  beloved. 

Our  ancestors  must  have  enjoyed  this.  Nothing 
brt  that  affection  which  is  stronger  than  the  fear 
of  death,  that  love  which  "  woman's  own  fond 
spirit"  can  only  feel,  could  have  induced  her  to 
consent  to  share  the  dangers  and  distresses  of  the 
wilderness.  Her  empire  is  the  heart ;  to  rule  there, 
what  will  she  not  dare,  or  suffer !  The  men  had 
a  wider  sphere  of  ambition.  They  intended  to 
found  a  nation  whose  faith  should  be  pure,  and 
freedom  unconquerable ;  yet  even  then  their  dear- 
est hopes  must  have  centered  in  their  o^vn  families. 
When  husbands  and  fathers  went  armed  to  their 
labours,  and  dared  not  venture  from  the  sight  of 
their  homes  lest  the  enemy  should  surprise  the 
nelpless  inmates,  could  they  fail  in  love  and  fide- 


LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH.  17 

lity  to  those  they  guarded  so  sedulously  ?  And 
what  smiles  of  gladness,  gratitude,  and  attachment, 
must  have  welcomed  their  return,  from  those  who 
were  dependent  on  them,  not  only  for  support,  but 
for  protection,  for  life ! 

But,  be  all  this  as  it  may,  neither  riches  nor 
rank  influenced  the  choice  of  Robert  Wilson,  when 
he  selected  Mary  Grant  for  his  wife.  Mary  was 
poor,  and  an  orphan.  Her  father  died  on  his  pas- 
sage to  New-England,  whither  he  was  fleeing 
from  a  persecution  that  had  confiscated  his  pro- 
perty, and  for  three  long  years  held  him  confined 
in  a  prison.  He  at  length  escaped,  and  with  his 
wife  and  child  embarked,  as  he  hoped  and  pray 
ed,  for  a  better  world.  His  prayer  was  doubtless 
answered  in  mercy,  for  his  was  not  a  constitution, 
or  mind,  that  could  long  have  struggled  with  the 
hardships  of  the  wilderness ;  and  he  died  the  day 
before  the  vessel  entered  the  harbour.  His  wife 
survived  him  but  two  weeks,  and  the  little  weep- 
ing Mary  was  thrown  upon  the  charity  of  stran- 
gers. They  had  kind  hearts  in  those  old  times, 
and,  though  their  o^Ya  portion  was  ever  so  small, 
always  imparted  a  share  to  the  needy.  Mary 
found  many  willing  to  wipe  away  her  tears  and 
shelter  her  from  suflferings,  and  finally,  in  Cap- 

2* 


18  LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH. 

tain  Waldron  and  lady,  protectors  indulgent  as 
parents.  They  resided  at  Dover,  New-Hampshire, 
then  considered  as  belonging  to  the  Massachu- 
setts, and  found  Mary,  while  on  a  visit  at  Boston, 
carried  her  to  their  home,  and  treated  her  with 
all  the  tenderness  they  could  have  shown  their 
own  child.  Captain  Waldron  was  a  man  of  con- 
sequence in  Dover,  and  his  wife  considered  one 
of  the  first  women  in  the  town ;  and  it  was  fre- 
quently observed,  that  they  would  make  quite  a  lady 
of  Mary.  But  the  qualifications  for  ladies  were  not, 
at  that  period,  graduated  on  exactly  the  same  scale 
in  Dover  as  at  the  present  time.  Mary  was 
thought  to  be  well  educated,  yet  she  had  never  been 
taught  dancing,  painting,  nor  embroidery,  nor  had 
she  studied  French,  music,  nor  Euclid.  She  could 
read,  however,  as  fluently  as  any  modern  fine  lady  j 
and  read  too,  with  those  tones  of  feeling  that  pe- 
netrate the  heart  of  the  listener.  Her  voice  had 
music  m  its  expression,  and  she  sung  so  sweetly, 
wo  g-allant  amateur  could  have  preferred  the  piano 
to  the  warblings  of  her  "wood  notes  wild." 
Moreover,  Mary  could  sew,  and  knit,  and  spin, 
and  milk,  and  lay  a  table,  and  prepare  a  repast  in 
the  very  best  style  of  any  girl  in  the  settlement, 
and  all  before  she  was  sixteen.     Then    natur^ 


LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH.  19 

whose  gifts  are  far  more  to  be  coveted  than 
those  of  fashion,  or  fortune,  had  been  prodigal  to 
Mary.  She  was  the  fairest  girl  in  the  country ; 
and  many  aged  women,  when  gazing  on  her  sweet 
face,  shook  their  heads,  and  prophesied  she  had 
not  long  to  remain  in  this  dark  world.  Mary's  . 
beauty  was  not  of  the  kind  that  is  "  unchanging- 
ly bright ;"  it  was  the  loveliness  of  sentiment,  the 
benignity  and  purity  of  the  spirit  within,  that  gave 
to  her  countenance  its  irresistible  fascination. 
Her  chestnut  hair,  just  touched  with  one  golden 
tint,  curled  around  her  lovely  neck  and  fair  fore- 
head with  a  luxuriance  and  grace  art  cannot  imi- 
tate. The  lily  might,  perhaps,  have  been  thought 
to  have  too  much  predominated  in  her  complex- 
ion, had  not  the  least  emotion  called  the  blood  so 
quickly  and  eloquently  to  her  cheek  j  and  the 
pensiveness  in  her  soft  blue  eyes  always  changed 
to  the  lustre  of  joy,  when  she  welcomed  a  friend. 
Yet  Mary  was  rather  inclined  to  pensiveness. 
Perhaps  the  thought  of  her  parents,  whose  deaths 
she  well  remembered,  or  that  feeling  of  desolation 
and  loneliness  which  will,  at  times,  press  on  the 
hearts  of  those  who  can  claim  no  kindred  tie,  had 
given  to  her  countenance  an  expression  of  mild 
sadness,  and  to  her  character  a  cast  of  seriousness, 


20  LEGEND    OF  THE    NOTCH. 

which,  under  happier  auspices,  she  would  not 
have  exhibited.  Hers  was  just  that  kind  of  me- 
lancholy which,  in  the  aged,  we  call  wisdom; 
but  which,  when  possessed  by  one  so  young  and 
fair,  is  often  said  to  forebode  brevity  of  life,  or 
misfortunes  in  the  world ;  and  such,  it  had  often 
been  predicted,  would  be  the  fate  of  Mary.  But, 
while  she  was  invested  with  all  those  feminine 
charms  that  have  such  an  irresistible  influence 
over  the  hearts  of  men,  it  is  not  strange  that  she 
should  have  been  sought  by  many;  nor  that, 
when  young  Robert  Wilson  had  once  seen  and 
known,  he  should  have  loved  her. 

Robert  Wilson  was  from  Salem.  His  father  was 
one  of  the  first  settlers  of  that  ancient  town ;  a  true 
Puritan,  steady  and  sturdy  in  his  opposition  to, 
and  abhorrence  of,  every  tenet  favourable  to  pre- 
lacy, or  popery.  He  was  an  ardent,  enthusiastic, 
and  pious  man ;  but  a  very  proud  one.  He  was 
proud  of  the  sacrifices  he  had  made,  and  the 
persecutions  he  had  endured,  for  conscience'  sake ; 
proud  that  he  was  accounted  ashining  light  in  the 
colony  !  And  it  is  probable  that  the  sway  he  was 
permitted  to  exercise  over  the  minds  of  those 
among  whom  he  there  mingled,  was  more  grati- 
fying to  his  pride  than  the  homage  of  his  vassals 


LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH.  21 

would  have  been,  had  he  not,  by  his  incorrigi- 
ble nonconformity,  forfeited  the  estate  to  which 
he  might  have  succeeded.  He  was  proud  too  of 
his  son,  and  that  was  excusable ;  Robert  was  such 
a  son  as  would  justly  make  a  parent  glad,  if  not 
proud.  Robert  had  accompanied  his  father  on  a 
journey  through  most  of  the  settlements  in  the 
colony,  whither  Mr.  Wilson  went  to  examine  the 
state  of  the  churches,  and  endeavour  to  rouse 
then-  zeal  and  kindle  their  love.  At  Dover  they 
tarried  several  weeks,  passing  the  time  mostly 
at  the  dwelling  of  Captain  Waldron ;  and  if  the 
father-s  eloquence  failed  to  warm,  or  gain  hearts, 
the  son's  was  more  successful.  But  Robert  gave 
his  own  heart  in  exchange  for  Mary's.  Mr.  Wil- 
son beheld  their  attachment  with  more  compla- 
cency than  those  who  knew  his  pride  would  have 
expected.  Several  reasons  contributed  to  this. 
The  maiden's  manners  pleased  him  exceedingly ; 
he  saw  her  always  industrious,  and  very  attentive 
to  oblige ;  and  then  he  very  much  wished  to  have 
Robert  married.  It  was  his  favourite  maxim,  that 
early  marriages  made  men  better  citizens ;  and 
moreover  there  was  a  fine  piece  of  land,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Cocheco,  which  Robert  might  have 
for  a  farm.  Some  occurrences  in  Salem  had  lately 


22  LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH. 

chagrined  and  disgusted  him; — the  inhabitants 
of  Dover  treated  him  with  vast  respect,  and  he 
secretly  indulged  the  intention  of  removing  thi 
ther  himself,  should  his  son  be  prospered.  So 
matters  were  soon  arranged  to  the  mutual  satis- 
faction of  all  parties.  Robert's  land  was  fixed 
upon ;  and,  after  he  had  accompanied  his  father 
to  Salem,  and  procured  necessaries  for  beginning 
in  the  world,  he  was  to  return,  prepare  a  house 
and  the  means  of  living,  and  then  he  might  hope 
for  Mary's  hand.  It  cannot  be  imagined  that  Ro- 
bert, while  his  heart  was  with  Mary,  and  he  felt 
"  far  from  joy  when  far  from  her,"  would  make 
his  stay  at  Salem  a  long  one.  He  was  soon  seen 
wending  his  way  back  to  Dover,  equipped  to  settle 
in  the  forest.  The  appearance  of  his  farm  might 
not  have  been  exactly  to  the  taste  of  the  young 
gentlemen  of  the  present  day.  It  lay  in  all  the 
wildness  of  nature,  the  tall  trees  tossing  their 
heads  proudly  in  the  wind,  as  if  bidding  defiance 
to  puny  man,  who  was  wishing  to  usurp  the  do- 
minion they  had  held  undisturbedly  for  thousands 
of  ages.  And  in  the  recesses  of  those  dark  old 
woods,  often  lurked  the  insidious  savage,  more 
terrific  and  blood-thirsty  than  the  prowling  lion, 
or  the  crouchir>g^  tif^er.     However,  Robert  Wilson 


LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH.  23 

surveyed  the  trees,  and  thought  of  the  Indians 
without  shrinking.  He  had  a  light  heart,  a  strong 
arm,  a  sharp  axe,  and  a  sure  gun ;  and  the  labours 
and  dangers  besetting  his  path  of  life  gave  him  no 
more  concern  than  would  the  obstruction  of  this- 
tle do^^^l  in  his  road  to  church.  He  was  a  tall, 
finely  formed  young  man  of  twenty-one,  with  eyes 
as  black  as  a  thunder  cloud,  and  their  flash  very 
much  like  its  lightning.  His  hair  was  black  as  his 
eyes,  and  his  rather  dark  complexion  wore  such 
a  glow  of  health,  and  his  whole  countenance  and 
demeanour  so  much  of  happiness  and  frank  confi- 
dence, that  all  who  saw  him  prophesied,  and  in- 
deed wished,  success  to  the  handsome  and  active 
j'-Quth.  Their  wishes  and  his  appeared  likely  to 
be  realized.  In  one  year  from  the  time  of  his 
striking  the  first  blow  in  the  forest,  his  land  began 
to  wear  the  appearance  of  a  cultivated  farm.  The 
trees  had  all  disappeared  from  an  area  of  twenty 
acres,  and  its  surface  was  covered  and  stumps 
nearly  all  concealed  by  a  luxuriant  harvest.  There 
was  the  golden  wheat,  the  "  bearded  rye,"  and 
corn  as  tall  and  straight  as  a  company  of  grena- 
diers ;  with  pumpkins  and  squashes  reposing  on 
the  ground,  and  quietly  ripening  in  the  heats  of 
August.     On  a  gentle  swell  in  the  middle  of  this 


24  LEGEND  OF   THE   NOTCH. 

plantation  stood  a  small  dwelling.  I  wish  I  could 
with  propriety  call  it  a  cottage,  because  to  many 
young  ladies  it  would  give  such  a  romantic  inte- 
rest to  my  story — but  truth  compels  me  to  confess 
that,  although  doubtless  prettier  and  more  com- 
fortable than  many  real  cottages,  it  was  not  at  all 
like  a  cottage  of  the  imagination.  It  was  a  build- 
ing, twenty  feet  by  twenty-four,  formed  of  neatly 
hewed  logs,  the  roof  covered  with  boards,  the  in- 
side divided  into  tAvo  apartments  with  one  closet, 
and  the  whole  lighted  by  three  small  glass  win- 
dows. On  either  side  of  this  dwelling  rose  a  large 
locust  tree,  and  several  small  ones  were  in  front, 
purposely  left  standing  for  ornament ;  and  wild 
rose  bushes,  and  other  flowering  shrubs,  had  been 
spared,  or  transplanted  by  Robert,  to  give  addi- 
tional beauty  to  his  rural  seat.  Thick,  dark  fo- 
rests, formed  the  boundary  of  vision  on  every 
side ;  but,  in  front  of  the  house,  the  clearing  had 
extended  to  the  Cocheco,  whose  bright  waters 
were  seen  dancing  in  the  sunbeams,  and  afforded  a 
delightful  relief  to  the  eye,  after  it  had  dwelt  on 
the  gloom  of  the  surrounding  wilderness.  To  one 
always  accustomed  to  the  retreats  of  ease  and  opu- 
lence, the  wild  place  would  doubtless  have  looked 
dreary  as  a  prison  j  but  to  Robert,  who  could  al- 


LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH.  25 

most  call  it  the  creation  of  his  own  hands,  it  was 
a  little  paradise;  and,  when  his  bird  of  beauty 
should  be  placed  within  his  bower,  he  would  not 
have  exchanged  it  for  those  stately  halls  his 
mother  had  told  him  he  was  once  destined  to  in- 
habit. The  wedding  day  at  length  arrived.  It 
had  always  been  anticipated  by  Robert  as  one  that 
would  bring  unalloyed  joy ;  but  Mary  had  often 
felt  a  sadness,  something  like  a  foreboding  of  mis- 
fortune, come  over  her  mind  whenever  her  mar- 
riage was  alluded  to.  She  could  not  tell  her  o^vn 
heart  the  cause  of  this  melancholy ;  it  was  not  that 
she  was  averse  to  the  union,  for  she  loved  Robert 
more  than  all  the  world  besides ;  nor  that  she 
feared  to  dwell  in  the  wilderness — there  had  not 
for  a  long  time,  been  an  alarm  from  the  Indians. 
Why  is  it  that,  at  times,  a  shadow  will  fall  on  the 
spirit,  which  no  efforts  of  the  mind,  no  arguments 
of  reason  can  dispel  ? 

There  were  great  preparations  for  the  wedding. 
Captain  Waldron  liked  a  parade ;  and  his  wife 
liked  to  talk ;  and  the  marriage  afforded  a  justifi- 
able occasion  to  gain  popularity  by  a  hospitable 
display.  Three  o'clock  was  the  hour  of  ceremo- 
ny ;  then  followed  a  feast ;  and,  lastly,  all  the 
company  who  had  horses,  were  to  ride  and  escort 

3 


¥' 


26  LEGEND  OF    THE    NOTCH. 


the  young  couple  to  their  dwelling.  Of  the  wed- 
ding dresses,  I  shall  only  say,  that  they  were  qnite 
fashionable  then,  and  would  be  very  monstrous 
now ;  and  a  minute  description  of  antiquated  at- 
tire ought  not  to  occupy  much  of  a  story  so  li- 
mited as  this.  The  Reverend  John  Reyner  offici- 
ated at  the  ceremony ;  and  then  the  whole  party 
sat  down  to  a  long  table  crowned  with  an  enor- 
mous Indian  pudding, — not  made  of  Indians,  as 
an  Englishman  might  suppose,  but  of  Indian 
meal, — and  served  up  in  a  huge  pewter  platter. 
The  plates  were  of  the  same  metal,  all  shining 
like  silver,  from  a  recent  scrubbing ;  and  then  they 
had  roast  beef,  and  lamb,  and  venison,  and  many 
other  good  things,  which  they  relished  better  for 
seldom  indulging  in  them.  But  they  had  no  wine, 
nor  strong  drink,  in  those  days ;  and,  what  would 
be  remarkable  now,  the  host  felt  no  mortification 
from  not  having  them  to  offer,  nor  his  guests  dis- 
appointment in  not  having  them  to  partake. 

Robert's  house  stood  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  that  of  Captain  Waldron's,  and  eighty  rods 
from  any  human  habitation.  The  distance  was 
not  great,  but  it  was  all  wilderness ;  and  the  road 
was  only  cut  and  freed  from  the  obstruction  of 
trees.    No  carriage  could  have  rolled  over  the 


IW  LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH. 

rugged  way;  but  that  was  no  subject  of  regret, 
as  not  a  wheel  vehicle,  excepting  great  lumber 
carts,  had  ever  been  seen  in  Dover.  So  the  gen- 
tlemen mounted  their  goodly  steeds,  and,  each 
gallantly  taking  a  lady  behind  him,  they  set  oif, 
with  the  bridegroom  and  bride  at  the  head  of  the 
cavalcade,  in  great  style,  followed  by  the  smiles 
and  benedictions  of  those  who  could  not  join  for 
lack  of  horses.  Their  progress  was  joyous  and 
rapid,  till  they  entered  the  winding  path  of  the 
forest,  where  a  more  sober  pace  became  necessa- 
ry ;  but  Robert's  horse,  being  accustomed  to  the 
way,  still  pressed  on  at  a  rate  that  soon  made  him 
several  rods  in  advance  of  the  party.  The  path, 
just  before  entering  the  clearing,  approached  very 
near  the  river  ;  this  curve  was  made  to  avoid  a 
large  rock,  that  stood  like  a  wall  on  the  north  side 
of  the  road,  confining  its  width  to  a  space  barely 
sufficient  for  a  passage.  Just  as  Robert  was  turn- 
ing this  rock,  Mary,  uttering  a  shriek,  was  either 
torn,  or  fell  from  her  seat,  the  horse  springing  for- 
ward at  the  same  instant ;  and,  while  Robert,  call- 
ing on  his  wife,  was  attempting  to  rein  his  steed,  a 
gun  was  discharged  by  an  Indian  from  behind  the 
rock.  The  ball  struck  the  horse,  as  he  reared  high 
from  the  effect  of  the  rein,  on  the  breast,  and  he 


28  LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH. 

fell  backwards  upon  his  rider.  The  report  of  the 
gun  was  followed  by  a  loud  shout  from  the  wed- 
ding party, — not  that  they  suspected  the  cause  of 
the  firing,  or  its  fatal  consequences, — they  sup- 
posed Robert  had  reached  his  own  house,  and 
fired  his  gun  as  the  signal.  Their  shouts  intimi- 
dated the  savages,  who  precipitately  fled  with  their 
prisoner,  without  even  stopping  to  scalp  her  un- 
fortunate husband.  Tlie  party  rode  joyously  up 
— ^but  who  can  describe  their  consternation  and 
horror,  on  finding  Robert  stretched,  apparently 
lifeless,  on  the  ground,  covered  with  the  blood  of 
his  dying  steed,  which  they  mistook  for  his  own  j 
while  Mary  was  nowhere  to  be  found  !  Calami- 
ties never  fall  with  such  an  overwhelming  force, 
as  when  they  surprise  us  in  the  midst  of  security 
and  happiness.  From  that  company,  lately  so 
gay,  was  now  heard  nothing  but  lamentations  for 
the  sufferers,  or  execrations  upon  the  enemy.  The 
men  were  all  unarmed ;  they  could  not,  therefore, 
Dursue  the  Indians,  and  endeavour  to  rescue  Mary ; 
Dut  having  ascertained  Robert  was  still  living, 
they  bore  him  back  to  the  dwelling  of  Captain 
Waldron,  whence  he  had  so  lately  gone  in  all  the 
pride  of  youth  and  joy. 
There  was  no  sleep  that  night  in  Dover.  The  in- 


LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH.  29 

habitants  seemed  panic-struck.  They  crowded  to 
the  fortified  houses,— mothers  pressing  their  chil- 
dren closer  to  their  bosoms,  as  they  listened  in 
breathless  terror,  often  fancying  they  heard  the 
stealthy  tread  of  the  savages  ;  and  trembling  in 
agony,  as  they  thought  of  their  horrible  yells. 
But  the  night  passed  away  without  alarm,  arj/i  a 
bright  morning  sun  soon  dissipated  their  imagi- 
nary terrors.  Robert  had  nearly  recovered  from 
the  effects  of  his  fall ;  and  though  his  cheek  was 
pale,  there  was  a  sternness  in  his  dark  eye  that 
told  his  spirit  was  unquelled.  It  was  his  determi- 
nation to  seek  his  wife ;  and  several  young  men, 
after  they  found  his  resolution  could  not  be  alter- 
ed, volunteered  to  accompany  him.  Tliey  went 
tirst  to  the  fatal  rock ;  from  thence  they  followed 
the  Indians  nearly  a  mile  into  the  woods ;  but  for 
a  long  time,  no  further  traces  could  be  found. 
After  searching  many  hours,  they  were  joined  by 
a  praying  Indian,  as  he  was  called.  Mendowit 
learned  the  English  language,  and  became  con- 
verted to  Christianity,  soon  after  the  colonists  set- 
tled in  Salem.  He  had  received  many  favours  from 
the  elder  Mr.  Wilson,  and  had  loved  Robert  from 
his  infancy.  He  had  lately  wandered  to  Dover, 
and  spent  his  time  in  hunting  and  fishing  around 

3* 


3d  LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH. 

Robert's  clearing.  Mendowit  soon  discovered  the 
trail  of  the  Indians.  They  had  returned  on  their 
own  steps,  after  the  departure  of  the  wedding 
party,  and  kept  the  narrow  path  tih  it  joined  the 
more  open  one ;  and  then  they  struck  off  through 
the  wilderness.  After  following  about  three  miles, 
their  encampment  was  discovered.  Mendowit 
examined  it  attentively,  as  also  the  direction  the 
savages  had  taken. 

"  How  many  are  there  ?"  asked  Robert. 

"Two,  besides  the  captive j"  replied  Men- 
dowit. 

Robert's  cheek  became  paler,  as  he  stooped  to 
pluck  from  a  bush  a  fragment  of  lace  and  gauze, 
which  he  knew  had  belonged  to  Mary's  bridal 
dress.  Placing  the  fragment  in  his  bosom,  he  in- 
quired where  Mendowit  thought  the  hostile  In- 
dians were  retreating. 

"  They  are  IMohawks,"  returned  the  other ;  "  I 
know  by  the  track  of  their  moccasins ;  and  they 
will  go  to  their  tribe  on  the  great  river  or  the 
lakes." 

"  They  shall  not !"  exclaimed  Robert,  stamping 
on  the  ground  in  fury.  "  I  will  pursue  them ;  I 
will  rescue  Mary,  or  die  with  her.  Mendowit,  you 
know  the  paths  of  the  woods— will  you  go  with 


LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH.  31 

me?"  and  here  lie  enumerated  several  articles  he 
would  give  him,  a  gun,  powder,  &€. 

"They  will  go  through  the  hielden  paths  of  the 
Agiocochook,"  remarked  the  Indian,  thoughtfully. 

"  We  can  overtake  them  before  they  reach  the 
White  Mountains !"  said  Robert,  eagerly.  "  You 
shall  have  the  best  gun  I  can  purchase  in  Boston, 
Mendowit,  and  my  horn  full  of  powder,  and  a 
new  knife,"  These  were  powerful  temptations  to 
the  Indian ;  but  a  more  powerful  one  was  the  an- 
cient and  inveterate  hatred  he  bore  the  MohaAvks. 
Revenge  is  an  inextinguishable  passion  in  a  red 
man's  breast.  Mendowit  -svas  a  christian,  as  far 
as  he  could  be,  without  ceasing  to  be  an  Indian  ; 
but  his  new  principles  could  never  eradicate  his 
early  prejudices,  nor  subdue  his  ruling  passion. 
Now  the]Mohawks  had  injured  a  christian  friend, 
and  the  indulgence  of  his  hatred  towards  them 
seemed  a  christian  virtue.  But  there  was  an  ob- 
stacle to  his  accompanying  Robert.  Mendowit 
concluded  these  Indians  would  retreat  through 
what  is  now  called  the  Notch  of  the  White  Moun- 
tains ;  and  of  that  pass  he  had  a  superstitious 
dread.  But  Robert  urged  him  with  so  many  per- 
suasions, suggesting  also  the  certaintj''  of  overta- 
king the  Mohawks  long  before  they  reached  Agi- 


32  LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH, 

ocochook,  that  Mendowit  finally  consented.  The 
sun  was  just  setting  when  this  arrangement  was 
concluded.  To  follow  the  Indian  trail  during  the 
night,  w^as  impracticable ;  and  Robert,  now  there 
seemed  a  possibility  of  recovering  INIary,  became 
reasonable  enough  to  listen  to  the  advice  of  his 
friends,  and  consent  to  stay  till  the  ensuing  morn- 
ing. The  night  was  mostly  spent  in  preparations 
for  his  adventure,  or  in  listening  to  the  advice  of 
those  who  thought  themselves  fully  competent  to 
judge  of  the  best  method  of  proceeding  in  the  at- 
tack of  Indians. 

Some  tried  to  dissuade  tlie  young  husband  from 
the  attempt  to  recover  his  wife  by  force ;  as  the 
Indians,  they  averred,  always  murdered  their  pri- 
soners when  attacked.  They  said  it  would  be  best 
to  send  a  messenger  to  the  Mohawks,  who  would 
doubtless  disclaim  all  knowledge  of  the  violence, 
which  had,  probably,  been  perpetrated  by  some 
stragglers  from  their  tribe,  and  negociate  for  the 
release  or  ransom  of  the  captive. 

Robert's  blood  chilled  at  the  suggestion  that  his 
rashness  might  accelerate  the  death  of  his  wife  ; 
but  the  negociation  for  her  ransom,  was  uncertain, 
and  the  period  of  her  release  might  be  distant. 
He  thought  she  could  not  long  survive  in  captivi- 


LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH.  33 

ty ;  and  he  hoped  to  surprise  her  captors  una- 
wares, to  free  her,  clasp  her  to  his  bosom,  and  hear 
her  sweet  voice  pronounce  his  name  as  that  of  her 
dehverer.  As  the  picture  brightened  beneath  his 
fancy,  he  started  from  his  seat,  and  rushed  out,  to 
see  if  the  morning  light  might  not  be  discovered. 
It  soon  dawned ;  and,  completely  equipped,  the 
Indian  with  his  gun  and  tomahawk,  Robert  with 
a  double  barrelled  rifle,  sword,  and  ammunition, 
and  each  carrying  a  pack  containing  their  provi- 
sions and  restoratives  for  Mary,  they  set  off  on  an 
expedition,  fraught,  doubtless,  with  more  real 
perils  than  the  adventures  of  many  proud  knights, 
whose  deeds  are  recorded  in  historic  legends, 
and  emblazoned  on  the  escutcheons  of  their  de- 
scendants. Fame  is  certainly  more  dependent  on 
fortunate  circmnstances  than  great  achievements. 
Had  Robert  Wilson  lived  in  the  days  of  chivalry, 
his  courage  and  constancy  would  have  been  the 
theme  of  poets,  and  song  of  minstrels ;  now,  the 
only  record  of  his  name,  or  even  his  existence, 
will  be  this  unpretending  story. 

They  entered  the  deep  forest,  and,  guided  by 
the  traces  of  the  retreating  Indians,  pressed  for- 
ward, at  first,  with  all  the  speed  they  could  urge. 
But  Mendowit  soon  checked  his  rapid  pace,  and 


34  LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH. 

represented  to  Robert  that  the  two  Mohawks  were 
perhaps  scouts  from  a  large  party ;  and  that  cau- 
tion must  be  used,  or  they  might  unawares  be 
caught  in  an  ambush.  Robert's  impatience  would 
never  have  submitted  to  this  curb,  could  he,  by 
any  means,  have  avoided  it ;  but,  as  he  could  not 
quicken  the  pace  of  Mendowit,  he  was  compelled 
to  conform  to  it.  Cautiously,  therefore,  they  jour- 
neyed on,  through  the  old  woods,  where  a  civi- 
lized being  had  never  before  voluntarily  ventured. 
All  was  silence ;  save  when,  at  long  intervals,  the 
cry  of  some  solitary  bird  broke  on  the  ear  with 
startling  shrillness ;  or  perhaps  a  rustling  among 
the  dry  branches  made  the  travellers  pause  in 
breathless  silence,  till  a  deer,  bounding  across 
their  path,  w^ould  plunge  into  the  opposite  thicket ; 
while  they  did  not  dare  to  send  a  bullet  after 
him,  lest  the  report  of  their  guns  should  alarm  the 
enemy,  who  might,  even  then,  be  lurking  close 
beside  them. 

There  was,  during  the  journey,  a  fearful  appre- 
hension, an  undefinable  horror  on  the  heart  and 
mind  of  Robert,  far  more  terrible  than  he  would 
have  endured  had  he  known  Mary  had  ceased  to 
exist.  The  tortures  she  might  be  forced  to  under- 
go, haunted  his  imagination    till  every  sound 


LEGEND  OF    THE    NOTCH.  35 

seemed  to  warn  him  to  hasten  to  her  relief;  and  the 
delays  and  obstrnctions  that  were  continually  ari- 
sing, made  his  blood  boil  with  a  fury  he  could 
scarcely  control.  His  impatience  greatly  surprised 
Mendowit;  who,  with  all  the  philosophic  calmness 
of  a  sage,  would  take  his  own  time  to  examine  the 
traces  of  their  fleeing  foes,  and  calculate  the  dis- 
tance they  had  gained,  and  the  probable  time  when 
they  should  overtake  them.  Tliis  would  have 
been  soon,  had  the  Mohawks  proceeded  straight 
forwards.  But,  as  if  anticipating  pursuit,  they 
were  continually  practising  to  elude  it.  They 
would  often  trace  back  their  own  footsteps,  like 
the  doublings  of  a  fox  ;  and,  when  following  the 
course  of  a  river,  travel  in  the  Avater,  and  cross 
and  recross  at  p-laces  which  none  but  the  sagacity 
of  a  red  m.an  could  have  discovered.  These  sub- 
tle movements  satisfied  Mendowit  that  there  was 
no  large  body  of  Indians  at  hand ;  and,  on  the 
morning  of  the  fourth  day,  he  announced  that 
they  should  soon  see  Mary.  They  were  approach- 
ing the  mountains,  and  Mendowit  seemed  eager 
to  overtake  the  Indians  before  entering  the  defile 
that  led  to  the  Notch.  By  the  foot  prints,  they 
ascertained  Mary  did  not  walk,  probably  could 
not ;  and  Robert  shuddered,  and  clenched  his  gun 


36  LEGEND  OF   THE   NOTCH. 

with  a  convulsive  grasp,  as,  at  each  step,  his  eye 
searched  around  in  every  penetrable  direction, 
dreading  to  meet  a  confirmation  of  his  fears;  yet 
the  sight  of  her  mangled  corse  would  scarcely 
have  added  to  his  heart's  agony. 

The  weather,  which,  ever  since  they  left  Dover, 
and  indeed  for  some  time  before,  had  been  ex- 
tremely dry  and  wann,  now  suddenly  changed ; 
and  they  seemed  transported  to  another  region. 
Thick  black  masses  of  clouds  enveloped  the 
mountains,  and  soon  covered  the  whole  horizon, 
and  the  darkness  of  night  came  down  at  once ; 
and  then  the  wind  rose,  and,  at  intervals,  swept 
onward  with  the  force  of  a  tornado.  It  required 
no  effort  of  the  imagination  to  fancy  the  old 
woods  were  gi'oaning  with  apprehensions  of  some 
terrible  calamity.  The  trunks  of  the  largest  trees 
uivered,  and  their  lofty  heads  bent  almost  to  the 
ground,  as  the  "  mountain  winds  went  sounding 
by"  from  a  chasm  far  more  awful  than  the  "  Ron- 
cesvalles  strait." 

"  We  must  return,"  said  Mendowit,  pausing ; 
"  we  cannot  overtake  them.  The  secret  path  of 
Agiocochook,  Mendowit  must  not  tread." 

"You  must,"  returned  Robert  sternly,  mista- 
king the  cause  of  his  guide's  reluctance;  "but 


LEGEND  OF   THE   NOTCH.  37 

you  need  not  fight.  Only  show  me  the  Mohawks, 
and.  be  there  two  hundred,  I  will  rescue  Mary." 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  flash  of  lightning  so 
vivid,  that,  for  a  moment,  the  mountains  and  their 
recesses  seemed  all  revealed ; — their  high  heads, 
that  reached  upwards  to  the  heavens;  their  ya^Ti- 
mg  chasms  and  deep  gullies;  the  huge  rocks, 
some  fixed  as  earth's  foundations,  and  others  ap- 
parently suspended  in  air,  ready  to  topple  on  the 
heads  of  those  beneath ;  the  dark  trees,  with  their 
roots  and  fibres  twisted  amid  the  precipices,  over 
which  they  were  bending,  and  clinging,  as  it  were, 
for  safety.  A  tremendous  peal  of  thunder  follow- 
ed ;  its  echoes  reverberated  through  the  trembling 
mountains  with  a  deafening  roar,  and  then  the 
rain  burst  in  torrents. 

It  was  in  vain  to  attempt  moving  forward,  while 
the  wind  and  rain  beat  so  furiously ;  and  Robert 
asked  the  Indian  where  they  could  shelter.  Men- 
dowit  replied  by  a  motion  towards  the  west  side 
of  the  mountain  near  which  they  stood,  and  be- 
gan hastily  to  ascend.  Robert  followed.  The 
path  was  perilous,  and  required  much  caution  5 
but  the  Indian  appeared  well  acquainted  with  the 
difficulties,  and  easily  surmounted  them,  till  he 
reached  a  kind  of  cavern,  m  the  side  of  a  preci- 

4 


38  LEGEND  OF  THE   NOTCIT. 

pice,  which  they  both  entered  in  safety.  Tliey 
were  now  sheltered  from  the  peltings  of  the 
storm,  but  not  from  its  uproar.  It  seemed  as  if 
air,  fire,  and  water,  were  loosened  to  work  their 
pleasure  on  the  shrinking  and  quaking  earth. 
The  lightning,  that  shone  in  one  continued  glare; 
the  awful  rolling  of  the  thunder,  that  shook  these 
everlasting  hills;  the  rain,  that  did  not  fall  in 
drops,  but  poured  in  large  streams  from  the  black 
clouds ;  the  howling  of  the  wind,  as  it  raved 
through  the  hollow  passes ;  the  frequent  and  loud 
crash  of  fallmg  rocks  and  trees — all  united  to 
give  to  the  scene  an  awful  sublimity,  which  the 
soul  could  feel,  but  the  pen  can  never  describe. 
Amid  tliis  wreck  of  matter,  as  it  were,  Robert 
heeded  not  his  own  danger ;  he  thought  only  of 
his  wife.  At  every  fresh  burst  of  the  tempest, 
"  oh,  where  is  Mary  now  1"  came  over  his  heart, 
till  his  knees  smote  together,  and  larg«  drops  of 
sweat  started  on  his  pale  forehead.  Then  he  would 
rush  to  the  narrow  entrance  of  the  cell,  with 
clenched  hands,  and  look  abroad,  to  see  if  there 
was  any  abatement  of  the  storm ;  and  then,  in  de- 
spair, he  would  seek  the  furthest  gloom  of  the  ca- 
vern, throw  hnnself  do^vn  on  the  damp  rock,  close 
bis  eyeSjand  endeavour  to  banish  all  thought  from 


XEGEND  OF   THE  NOTCH.  89 

his  mind.  Thus  passed  the  hours  till  after  mid- 
night; when,  during  a  pause  of  the  wind,  a  strange 
noise  was  heard.  It  was  not  like  a  shriek,  or  cry 
from  any  human  voice,  or  the  yell  of  a  wild 
beast;  but  a  deep,  dismal  sound,  thrilling  the 
listener  like  a  warning  call  from  some  unearthly 
being. 

Robert  started  on  his  feet.  A  bright  flash  of 
lightning  showed  him  Mendowit  rising  from  his 
reciunbent  posture  :  his  hands  were  falling  pow- 
erless by  his  side,  and  his  face  expressed  an  inter- 
nal agitation  and  terror  which  a  red  man  rarely 
exhibits. 

I  "  It  is  the  voice  of  the  Abamocho"'  said  the 
Indian,  in  a  low  tone,  that  evidently  trembled. 
"I  have  heard  it  once  before.  He  calls  for  a  vic- 
tim." 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  demanded  Robert^  unsheath- 
ing his  sword- 

"  He  is  the  spirit  of  the  dark  land !"  said  Men- 
dowit, shrinking  down,  as  if  to  hide  himself  from 
some  dreaded  object.  "  He  rules  over  these  moun- 
tains ;  he  comes  in  the  storm,  and  none  whom  he 
marks  for  destruction  can  escape  him." 

Robert's  whole  soul  had  been  so  engrossed  with 
the  idea  of  Mary,  and  how  to  rescue  her,  that 


40  LEGEND  OF  THE   NOTCH. 

scarcely  a  thought  or  care  for  any  other  human 
being  had  entered  his  mind  since  leaving  Dover. 
The  appalling  noise  he  had  just  heard,  and  Men- 
dowit's  singular  manner,  now  aroused  his  curi- 
osity to  inquire  what  so  moved  the  Indian,  when 
alluding  to  the  Agiocochook.  Mendowit,  after 
heaving  a  deep  sigh,  replied,  "  These  mountains 
belong  to  Abamocho,  the  evil  spirit.  This  spirit 
always  favours  the  Mohawks ;  and  it  was  to  make 
them  a  path,  when  they  were  fleeing  before  the 
arrows  of  Tookenchosen,  the  great  sachem  of  the 
Massachusetts,  ,that  he  rent  the  mountain  asunder. 
The  evil  spirit  sat  on  a  huge  rock,  on  the  highest 
peak  of  the  mountain ;  and  he  beckoned  for  the 
Mohawks  to  pass  by,  laying  his  hand  on  his 
breast.  They  obeyed,  and  v.ent  in  safety  j— but, 
when  Tookenchosen  would  have  followed  them, 
the  spirit  spread  his  arms  abroad,  and  great  stones 
and  trees  were  hurled  down  upon  the  warriors,  till 
all  perished  except  their  chief.  This  was  many, 
many  moons  before  the  white  men  came ;  but  none 
of  our  warriors  dared  venture  to  Agiocochook,  to 
bring  away  the  bones  of  the  slain.  At  last,  my 
father  was  sachem  of  Massachusetts.  He  was  a 
great  chief.  His  tribe  was  more  numerous  than 
^he  leaves  of  the  summer  forest.    A  thousand 


LEGEND  or  THE  NOTCH.  41 

warriors  followed  his  steps ;  and  he  said  he  would 
bring  back  the  bones  of  his  fathers.  He  called 
his  young  men ;  and  took  me,  that  I  might  learn 
the  paths  of  the  woods.  I  was  a  child  then ;  I 
could  not  bend  a  warrior's  bow— but  they  went  not 
to  the  fight" 

He  paused ;  and  Robert  knew,  by  the  tones  of 
his  voice,  that  the  recollections  of .  other  years 
pressed  sadiy  on  his  mind.  After  a  few  moments 
of  breathless  silence,  he  resumed : 

^^  We  came  to  Agiocochook.  The  storm  was 
loud  as  you  now  hear ;  and  in  this  very  cave  my 
father  and  I  passed  the  night.  We  heard  the 
voice  of  Abamocho.  In  the  morning,  we  saw  him 
seated  on  his  rock.  He  waved  his  arm  for  us  to 
be  gone.  I  saw  it,  and  trembled ;  but  my  father 
would  not  depart  He  sought  all  the  secret 
places ;  but  the  bones  of  our  fathers  had  perished. 
We  returned  to  our  tribe ;  but  the  evil  spirit  sent 
a  curse  upon  us.  Sickness  destroyed  our  young 
men ;  the  Mohawks  scalped  our  old  men  and  chil- 
dren ;  my  father  fell  by  their  arrows.  I  avenged 
his  death ;  but  I  could  not  prevent  the  destruction 
of  my  nation.  Three  times  I  journeyed  to  the 
Agiocochook,  with  the  powows,  to  appease  Aba- 


42  LEGEND   OF  THE  NOTCH. 

mocho.    We  prayed  to  the  Ketan,  Avhen  at  home. 
It  availed  not." 

Agam  he  paused ;  and  Robert,  who  had  hsten- 
ed  with  intense  interest  to  the  story,  inquired 
where  the  remnant  of  his  tribe  dweh  now. 

"  Young  man,"  said  Mendowit,  rising  with  a 
melancholy,  but  majestic  air,  while  the  lightning 
showed  his  tall  form,  and  the  gray  locks  that  waved 
in  thick  masses  over  his  venerable  forehead; 
"  Young  man,  I  once  led  a  host  more  numerous 
than  the  trees  of  yonder  forest.  I  was  chief  of  a 
mighty  nation — now  Mendowit  dwells  alone.  I 
am  the  last  of  my  tribe."  As  he  ended,  he  sank 
down,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

Robert's  life  had  been  a  laborious,  but  a  very 
happy  one.  He  was  naturally  of  a  cheerful  tem- 
perament ;  and  seldom  had  his  imagination  dwelt 
on  the  dark  shades  of  human  life.  He  had  felt,  as 
youth  and  health  are  prone  to  feel,  as  if  earth 
were  made  purposely  for  the  happiness  of  man, 
and  existence  would  never  have  an  end.  A  few 
hours  had  taught  him  solemn  lessons  of  the  vanity 
and  change  of  all  created  things.  Without,  and 
around  him,  was  the  destroying  tempest,  dashing 
to  atoms  the  works  of  nature ;  within  was  Men- 
dowit, an  image  of  moral  desolation. 


LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH.  43 

Robert  sat  down ;  and,  ^vhile  the  picture  of  hu- 
man vicissitudes  was  present  thus  vividly  and 
mournfully  to  his  mind,  mingled  with  the  thought 
of  his  own  heart-sickening  disappointment,  he 
wept  like  an  infant.  The  tears  he  shed  were  not 
merely  those  of  selfish  regret.  He  WTpt  the  mi- 
series to  which  man  is  exposed,  till  his  mind  was 
insensibly  drawn  to  ponder  on  the  transgressions 
that  must  have  made  such  punishments  necessa- 
ry. And  never  had  he  breathed  so  contrite  a 
prayer  as  now  came  from  his  soul,  humbled  be- 
fore that  Almighty  Power  who  alone  can  say  to 
the  mourner,  "peace!" — to  the  tempest,  "be 
still !"  A  sweet  calm  at  length  fell  on  Robert's 
tossed  mind,  the  calm  of  confidence,  that  all  would 
finally  be  found  to  have  been  ordered  for  the 
best ;  and  he  sunk  into  a  profound  sleep,  from 
which  he  did  not  awake  till  aroused  by  Men- 
dowit. 

It  was  late  in  the  morning ;  the  storm  had 
ceased;  and  they  sallied  forth,  to  examine  the 
appearance  without.  An  exhalation  like  smoke 
arose  from  the  dripping  woods  and  wet  grounds 
beneath  and  around  them,  concealing  most  of  the 
devastations  the  storm  had  wrought.  The  clouds 
moved  slowly  up  the  sides  of  the  mountain,  still 


44  LEGEND  OF   THE   NOTCH. 

entirely  shrouding  its  tall  peaks;  but  they  did  not 
wear  the  threatening  hue  of  the  preceding  ni^t. 
They  had  discharged  their  contents,  and  their 
lightened  folds  were  now  gradually  melting,  and 
ready  to  disperse  before  the  morning  sun,  though 
its  beams  had  not  yet  penetrated  their  dark 
masses.  The  wind  was  entirely  hushed,  and  not 
a  sound,  except  the  solemn  monotonous  roar  of  a 
distant  waterfall,  broke  on  the  stillness.  While 
Robert  was  contrasting  the  almost  breathless 
tranquillity  he  now  gazed  upon,  with  the  wild  up- 
roar he  had  so  lately  witnessed,  Mendowit  touch- 
ed his  shoulder ;  and,  looking  round,  he  beheld 
the  features  of  the  Indian  distorted,  while  he 
gazed  and  pointed  upward  towards  a  huge  moun- 
tain, that  rose  in  the  farthest  distance  before  them. 
Above  its  tall  peak  reposed  a  black  cloud,  and  it 
was  the  appearance  of  that  cloud  which  so  terri- 
fied Mendowit. 

"  It  is  the  Abamocho,"  said  he,  in  a  suppressed, 
hollow  tone.  And  certainly,  by  the  aid  of  a  little 
imagination,  it  might  be  likened  to  a  human  form 
of  gigantic  proportions.  The  dark  face,  drawn 
against  a  cloud  of  lighter  hue,  was  seen  en  pro- 
file  ;  a  projection,  that  might  pass  for  an  arm, 
stretched  forward  to  a  vast  distance ;  and  then  a 


LEGEND   OF  THE   NOTCH.  45 

shapeless  mass,  that  the  Indian  might  call  a  robe, 
fell  down  and  covered  the  surrounding  precipice. 

"  Your  evil  genius,"  said  Robert,  half  laughing, 
as  he  looked  alternately  at  his  guide  and  the  cloud, 
"  has,  to  my  thinking,  a  most  monstrous  and  evil- 
looking  nose." 

"Hugh!"  said  Mendowit,  inteiTupting  him. 
That  part,  which  formed  the  arm  of  the  spirit, 
began  slowly  to  move  towards  the  body  of  the 
cloud,  incorporating  with  it  in  such  a  manner, 
that  the  Indian  might  well  be  pardoned  for  think- 
ing Abamocho  had  folded  his  hand  on  his  breast. 

Mendowit  had  held  his  breath  suspended  during 
the  movement  of  the  cloud,  and  his  deep  aspira- 
tion, as  he  emphatically  said,  "Abamocho  is 
pleased;  we  may  now  go  in  safety,"  sounded 
like  the  breathing  of  a  droA\aiing  man  when  he 
rises  to  the  surface  of  the  water.  After  hastily 
refreshing  themselves,  they  descended  from  their 
retreat,  and  began  their  progress  through  the  de- 
file. The  storm  had  obliterated  all  traces  of  the 
Mohawks,  but  there  were  no  diverging  paths ; 
those  M'ho  once  entered  the  pass  must  proceed  on- 
ward. It  was  now  that  Robert  saw  the  devasta- 
tions of  the  storm.  Their  way  was  obstructed  by 
fallen  trees,  fragments  of  rock,  deep  gullies,  and 


46  LEGEND    OF   THE  NOTCH. 

roaring  waterfalls,  pouring  from  the  sides  of  the 
mountain,  and  swelling  the  Saco,  till  its  turbid 
stream  nearly  flooded  the  whole  valley.  They 
proceeded  silently  and  cautiously  for  more  than 
an  hour,  when  Mendowit  suddenly  paused,  and, 
whispering  to  Robert,  "  I  scent  the  smoke  of  fire," 
sunk  on  his  hands  and  knees,  and  crept  forward 
as  softly  as  a  cat  circumventing  her  prey.  A  few 
rods  distant  lay  a  huge  tree,  uprooted  by  the  late 
storm;  sheltered  behind  this,  Mendowit  half  rose, 
and,  through  the  interstices  of  the  roots,  examined 
the  prospect  before  him.  He  soon  signed  for  Ro- 
bert to  advance ;  who,  imitating  the  posture  of  his 
guide,  instantly  crept  forward,  and,  at  a  little  dis- 
tance before  them,  beheld— Mary.  She,  with  the 
two  IVIohawks,  was  seated  beneath  a  shelving 
rock,  whose  projection  had  been  their  only  shel- 
ter from  the  storm.  The  height  of  the  projection 
did  not  allow  them  to  stand  upright ;  but  the  In- 
dians had  kindled  a  fire,  and  were  now  partaking 
their  rude  meal.  Their  backs  were  towards  Ro- 
bert, and  their  faces  fronted  their  prisoner,  who, 
wrapped  in  a  covering  of  skins,  reclined  against 
a  fragment  of  the  rock.  Just  as  Robert  looked, 
one  of  the  Mohawks  held  some  food  towards  Mary. 
Bhe  micovered  her  head,  and,  by  a  gesture,  re- 


LEGEND  OF   THE    NOTCH.  47 

fused  the  morsel.  Her  cheek  was  so  pale,  and  her 
whole  countenance  looked  so  sunken,  that  Robert 
thought  her  expiring.  His  heart  and  brain  seem- 
ed on  fire,  as  his  eyes  flashed  around,  to  see  if 
any  advantage  might  be  taken  ere  he  rushed  upon 
the  foe.  At  that  moment,  the  Mohawks,  uttering 
a  horrible  cry,  sprung  upon  their  feet,  and  ran 
towards  him.  He  raised  his  gun;  but  Mendowit, 
seizing  his  shoulder,  drew  him  backwards,  at  the 
same  time,  crying,  "  the  mountain  I  the  moun- 
tain I" 

Robert  looked  upward.  Awful  precipices,  to 
the  height  of  more  than  two  thousand  feet,  rose 
above  him.  Near  the  highest  pinnacle,  and  the 
very  one  over  which  Abamocho  had  been  seated, 
the  earth  had  been  loosened  by  the  violent  rains, 
Some  slight  cause,  perhaps  the  sudden  bursting 
forth  of  a  mountain  spring,  had  given  motion  to 
the  mass ;  and  it  was  now  moving  forward,  gather- 
ing fresh  strength  from  its  progress,  uprooting  the 
old  trees,  unbedding  the  ancient  rocks,  and  all  roll- 
ing onwards  with  a  force  and  velocity  no  human 
barrier  could  oppose,  no  created  power  resist.  One 
glance  told  Robert  that  Mary  must  perish ;  that 
he  could  not  save  her.  "  But  I  will  die  with  her !" 
he  exclaimed ;  and  shaking  off  the  grasp  of  Men- 


48  LEGEND  OF   THE   NOTCH.    • 

dowit  as  he  would  a  feather,  "  Mary,  oh  Mary  1" 
he  continued,  rushing  towards  her.  She  unco- 
vered her  head,  made  an  effort  to  rise,  and  articu- 
lated "Robert!"  as  he  caught  and  clasped  her  to 
his  bosom.  "  Oh,  Mary,  must  we  die  ?"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  We  must,  we  must,"  she  cried,  as  she 
gazed  on  the  rolling  mountain  in  agonizing  hor- 
ror ;  "  why,  why  did  you  come  ?"  He  replied  not ; 
but,  leaning  against  the  rock,  pressed  her  closer 
to  his  heart ;  while  she,  clinging  around  his  neck, 
burst  into  a  passion  of  tears,  and,  laying  her  head 
on  his  bosom,  sobbed  like  an  infant.  He  bowed 
his  face  upon  her  cold  wet  cheek,  and  breathed 
one  cry  for  mercy ;  yet  even  then  there  was  in 
the  hearts  of  both  lovers  a  feeling  of  wild  joy 
in  the  thought  that  they  should  not  be  separated. 

The  mass  came  down,  tearing,  and  crumbling, 
and  sweeping  all  before  it !  The  whole  mountain 
trembled,  and  the  ground  shook  like  an  earth- 
quake. The  air  was  darkened  by  the  shower  of 
water,  stones,  and  branches  of  trees,  crushed  and 
shivered  to  atoms ;  while  the  blast  swept  by  like 
a  whirlwind,  and  the  crash  and  roar  of  the  con- 
vulsion were  far  more  appallmg  than  the  loudest 
thunder. 

It  might  have  been  one  minute,  or  twenty— for 


LEGEND  OS"  THE   NOTCH.  49 

neither  of  the  lovers  took  note  of  time — when,  in 
the  hush  as  of  death-Uke  stillness  that  succeeded 
the  uproar,  Robert  looked  around,  and  saw  the 
consuming  storm  had  passed  by.  It  had  passed, 
covering  the  valley,  farther  than  the  eye  could 
i€ach,  with  ruin.  JVIasses  of  gi'anite,  and  shivered 
tees,  and  mountain  earth,  were  heaped  high 
around,  filling  the  bed  of  the  Saco,  and  exhibiting 
an  awful  picture  of  the  desolating  track  of  the 
avalanche.  Only  one  little  spot  had  escaped  its 
wrath,  and  there,  safe,  as  if  sheltered  in  the  hollow 
of  His  hand,  v;ho  notices  the  fall  of  a  sparrow, 
and  locked  in  each  other's  arms,  were  Robert  and 
Mary!  Beside  them  stood  jMendowit — his  gun 
firmly  clenched,  and  his  quick  eye  rolling  around 
nim  like  a  maniac.  He  had  followed  Robert, 
though  he  did  not  intend  it ;  probably  impelled  by 
that  feeling  which  makes  us  loath  to  face  danger 
alone;  and  thus  had  escaped.  The  Mohawks 
were  doubtless  crushed,  as  they  never  appeared 
again. 

Should  the  traveller  to  the  "WTiite  Mountains, 
hereafter  be  curious  to  fix  upon  the  spot  v/here  the 
.overs  are  supposed  to  have  stood  during  this  con- 
Yulsion  of  nature,  he  will  find  it  near  the  small 
>X)use  that  escaped  destruction  in  the  late  event, 

5 


50  LEGEND   OF  THE   NOTCH, 

which  occurred  in  those  mountains,  similar  to  that 
which  we  have  described. 

The  feehngs  of  the  three  individuals,  so  mira- 
culously preserved,  cannot  be  portrayed.  Robert 
and  ]Mary  both  wept  for  a  long  time ;  and  though 
Mendowit  did  not  shed  tears,  he  preserved  that 
deep  silence,  which  speaks  the  awe  that  the  exhi- 
bition of  almighty  power  always  impresses  on  the 
heart  of  the  child  of  nature.  What  a  change  the 
mountain  exhibited  I  Where  the  dark  woods  had 
waved,  perhaps  for  thousands  of  years,  was  now 
a  naked  white  rock,  down  which  a  furious  torrent 
dashed  and  foamed ;  and  as  Robert  gazed  upon  it 
in  wonder,  the  sun  suddenly  broke  through  the 
clouds,  shone  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  and 
on  the  spray  of  the  waterfall,  blending  the  rock 
with  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow.  Mendowit 
saw  it,  and  a  smile  passed  over  his  rigid  features. 

"  Our  homeward  path  will  be  prosperous,"  said 
he ;  and  so  it  was.  They  made  a  litter  for  Mary  ; 
and  they  bore  her  on  it  by  day,  and  her  husband 
sheltered  her  in  his  bosom  by  night,  till  they  reach- 
ed Dover. 

Robert  and  ]\Iary  lived  long  and  happily,  in 
their  dwelling  on  the  banks  of  the  Cocheco.  In 
all  the  subsequent  attacks  of  the  Indians  on  Do- 


LEGEND  or   THE   NOTCH.  51 

ver,  they  were  unmolested ;  and  their  devoted 
affection,  which  continued  imabated  even  to  ex- 
treme old  age,  was  often  ascribed  to  the  dangers 
they  had  suffered  and  escaped  together.  Men- 
dowit  thought  himself  richly  repaid  for  his  share 
in  the  expedition.  He  had,  besides  a  new  rifle, 
powder,  and  knife,  both  the  guns  of  the  Mohawks, 
which  he  managed  to  carry  to  Dover,  as  trophies 
of  his  complete  success  in  tracking  their  paths. 
And,  moreover,  he  enjoyed,  till  the  day  of  his 
death,  the  friendship  and  protection  of  Robert  and 
Mary ;  and,  when  he  slept  that  deep,  cold  sleep, 
which  sooner  or  later  will  close  the  eyes  of  all 
who  dwell  beneath  the  sun,  they  saw  him  laid 
decently  in  the  grave,  and  their  tears  fell  at  the 
remembrance  cf  his  virtues  and  his  services. 


MUGINGS. 

BY  J.   I  -LELLAN. 


How  oft  the  summer  gladness  of  the  heart 
Is  all  o'ercast  by  sorrow's  \%intrj  gloom ! 
How  oft  is  pleasure's  gor^^ous  ch&lice  drugg'd 
With  misery !  and  care' a  niost  bitter  tears 
Shed  on  the  altar  of  oux  joy  ! — the  sigh 
Is  oft  the  echo  of  the  singer's  miith, 
And  grief's  half  stLled  sob  will  reach  the  ear 
"With  its  sad  tone,  when  hearts  are  beatuig  high, 
And  man's  rejoicing  voice  is  mingUng  with  the  sky. 

The  green,  bright  foliage  in  the  woods  of  spring, 
And  the  gay  garlandc  that  hoar  autumn  hangs 
High  in  his  vast  and  solemn  palaces, 
Teach  lessons  to  the  erring  pride  of  men. 
Those  delicate  leaves,  on  which  the  sunbeams  pou? 
Their  changing  hues,  and  which  the  starry  night 
So  gently  succours  with  lier  silvery  dews, 
Boast  but  a  brief  existence, — they  all  lay 
Their  pomp  aside,  and  droop,  aad  q'uckly  pass  awa. 

How  beautiful  is  the  swiftly  p&si^ng  light 
lu  the  calm  cloud  of  eve !  'tis  sweet  to  mai^ 

2 


CHILDHOOD.  53 

riiose  colour'd  folds  float  round  the  setting  sun, 
Like  crimson  drapery  o'er  a  monarch's  throne : 
Yet  I  have  seen  a  richer  carmine  flush 
The  snouy  wMteness  of  consumption's  cheek ; 
And,  wliile  death' s  chill  was  freezing  life' s  warm  spring 
I  watch' d  that  soften' d  glow, — it  faded  fast, 
And  lo  J  the  spirit  from  its  gentle  shrine  had  past. 

How  delicate  is  the  golden  thread  of  life ! 
How  slightly  broken ! — oft  the  whispering  wind 
That  murmurs  by  man's  morning  path,  doth  sing 
A  mournful  dirge  above  his  midnight  grave ; 
And  the  sweet  flowers  that  chann'd  him  in  the  spring. 
Keep  their  lone  watch  beside  his  marble  urn 
Long  ere  the  autumn  time.    How  few  the  days 
Allotted  us  to  live ! — we  yield  our  breath, 
And  soon  our  mourning  brethren  join  with  us  in  death. 


CHILDHOOD. 

BY    S.    GRISWOLD    GOODRICH. 


When  Winter  takes  its  sullen  flight, 
And  Spring  reveals  its  rosy  light, 
The  captive  mountain  stream,  unbound, 
First  feebly  steals  along  the  ground, 

5* 


§4  CHILDHOOD 

And  seeks  its  Mddcn  path  to  screen 

'Mid  tangled  trees  and  branches  green. 

But  bolder  soon  its  waters  pla}; 

Full  in  the  light  of  open  day  • 

Then  whirl  along  in  eddies  deep, 

And  fling  their  murmurs  down  the  steep. 

Now  full  and  free  the  gallant  stream 

Holds  dalliance  with  the  morning  beam ; 

Now  throws  aloft  its  gauzy  spray 

To  see  the  form  of  Iris  play ; 

Now  saunters  where  the  lilies  dip, 

Kissing  m  turns  each  proffer' d  hp ; 

Now  forward  flies,  like  lover  fleet, 

Some  kindred  rivulet  to  meet, 

That  lingers  in  the  valo  below 

And  sighs  with  some  fond  stream  to  flow ; 

And  now,  when  evening  throws  its  veil, 

Of  twilight  dim,  o'er  hill  and  dale, 

It  pauses  in  its  wild  career. 

Spreads  smooth  its  surface  broad  and  clear, 

And  hush'd  in  holy  stillness  lies, 

Looking  with  rapture  to  the  skies, 

While  deep  within  its  bosom  true, 

Is  traced  Heaven's  own  wide  world  of  blue  1 

Child  of  the  hills,  where  lightnings  streak ! 
Thy  cradle  is  the  azure  peak. 


Faimed  l^' JBJTOruvn,^^ . 


JiTt^ax'ed'  ^  S-S^Czmber 


Thus  stoTildthe  pttre  zaid  the  lovely  :meet. 
Stainless  with  stainless    and  sweet  ^fn^Si\  sivreet. 

JP117 


a^MIILIDIErcfDdl)]!]) 


J  1/  <.    i 


«    r    «  c  <    c 


CHILDHOOD.  55 

"*rhy  robes,  the  wreaths  of  morn  that  float, 
Thy  kiUaby,  the  thunder  note ! 
Born  of  the  snow,  by  tempests  fed, 
In  chasms  rock'd,  m  forests  bred, 
Thy  sport  is  o'er  the  rocks  to  leap ; 
Thy  dance,  in  caverns  dark  and  deep  j 
Thy  froUc,  foaming  wliite  to  run 
And  toss  thy  bubbles  to  the  sun  ! 
Bright  offspring  of  the  cloud  and  storm  ! 
There's  beauty  in  thy  crystal  form  ; 
Though  wild  and  wayward  thy  career, 
Thy  face  is  fair,  thy  music  dear ; 
Thou  art  fond  childhood's  hnage  fair, 
"With  full  blue  eye  and  sunny  hair, 
A  thing  of  beauty  and  caprice  ; 
Now  soft  as  summer's  sighincr  breeze. 
Now  wild  as  winds  that  wliirl  on  high, 
A  cloud  of  leaves  to  winter's  sky ! 

Sweet  mountain  stream !  I  love  to  trace 
TThee  in  thy  pure  and  playful  chase — 
But  more  I  love  the  beams  that  play 
O'er  childhood's  light  and  laughing  day ; 
The  filial  love  that  beameth  strong 
In  tearful  eyes,  through  lashes  long ; 
The  rainbow  smile  that  often  peers, 
Its  hisfxe  through  a  cloud  of  tears ; 


56  SOME   PASSAGES   iX   THE 

The  awe  that  on  the  young  face  steals 
"When  night  its  wondrous  sky  reveals ; 
The  high  arch' d  brow,  with  feeling  fraught^ 
The  long  fix'd  gaze  of  living  thought, 
That  tells  us  immortality 
Is  kindled  in  that  bright  blue  eye — 
These,  these  are  beauties  more  divine, 
Sweet  mountain  riMilet,  than  thine. 


SOME  PASSAGES 

IN   THE   LIFE    OF   AN   OLD   MAID. 


To  M****  S*****. 

You  have  often  asked  me,  my  dear  young 
friend,  why,  with  fortmie  and  other  advantages 
such  as  mine,  I  have  never  relinquished  the  ap- 
pellation of  spinster,  so  discordant  in  the  ears  of 
most  of  our  sex.  A  few  weeks'  retirement  in  the 
country  leaves  me  sufficient  leisure  to  gratify 
your  curiosity.  The  compUments,  with  which  you 
prefaced  your  request  that  I  would  narrate  the 
circumstances  of  my  early  life,  were  not  entirely 
lost  upon  me.  Vanity,  though  it  often  changes 
its  form,  is  perhaps  the  last  passion  that  deserts 
us.    Possibly  some  lingering  remnant  of  th'.s  feel  • 


LIFE   0?  AN   OLD  MAID.  §7 

lug,  associated  I  hope  with  a  desire  to  give  plea- 
sure, has  prompted  ms  to  recall  fo?  your  gratifi- 
cation, some  events:  over  which  time  ha^j  long 
drav/n  l  veil. 

The  term  "  Old  Maid"  is,  I  know,  by  many 
considered  synonymous  with  "  envy,  malice,  and 
all  uncliaritableness,"  yet  in  the  full  conscious- 
ness of  the  odium  of  the  title,  I  have  deliberately 
assumed  it,  for  reasons  of  which  I  vWU  constitute 
you  the  judge;  remarking  however,  en  passant, 
that  though  I  consider  my  own  reasons  forrem.ain- 
ing  single,  good  and  sufficient,  I  am  by  no  means 
desirous  of  persuading  you  to  follow  my  example. 
I  have  always  thought  that  the  wife  and  mother, 
who  properly  performs  the  various  duties  of  her 
station,  presents  at  once  the  most  honourable,  and 
most  interesting  character,  to  which  our  sex  can 
aspire.  My  fancy  has  sometimes  painted  the 
communion  of  interests,  the  chastened  tenderness 
of  that  connexion  which  1  have  never  formed ; 
and  though  I  have  never  felt  the  yearnings  of  a 
mother's  love,  I  can  well  imagine  its  elevating 
glow,  its  purifying  influence. 

\\liy  then  am  I  an  old  maid  ?  Yo:?  shall  know. 
I  v,-as  the  eldest  daughter  of  a  man  of  wealth  and 
consequence  J  consequence  derived  not  merely 


58  SOME   PASSAGES  IN  THE 

from  wealth,  but  from  the  dignity  of  worth.  At 
an  early  age  I  lost  my  mother,  yet  I  was  old 
enough  to  appreciate  the  worth  and  value  of  her 
character  in  some  degree,  and  to  feel  the  loss  I 
sustained  in  her  death.  The  union  of  my  parents 
had  been  long  and  happy ;  affection,  and  the  most 
perfect  esteem,  had  softened  the  unavoidable  evils 
of  life.  The  grief  of  my  father  vented  itself  not 
in  tears  or  lamentations,  which  his  reason  con- 
demned as  unmanly  and  enervating,  but  it  was 
not  the  less  deep  and  sincere ;  his  manner,  always 
gentle,  became  more  grave,  Ms  step  lost  some- 
thing of  its  elasticity,  his  eye  a  portion  of  its 
brightness;  indifferent  observers  might  have 
thought  him  unaltered,  but  to  those  who  loved 
him  it  was  evident  that  the  sunshine  of  life  was 
gone.  But,  while  life  remained,  he  felt  the  vari- 
ous duties  that  it  involved,  and  he  did  not  shrink 
from  them :  in  constant  employment,  in  the  edu- 
cation of  his  children,  he  sought  to  fill  the  void  the 
death  of  their  mother  had  created.  My  sister  was 
five  years  younger  than  myself,  of  a  gay  and 
lively  temper,  and  with  a  person  that  gave  pro- 
mise of  exquisite  beauty.  But  I  will  not  detain 
you  with  our  childish  years :  time  passed  rapidly ; 
I  arrived  to  womanhood;  and  all  the  pleasures  of 


LIFr  OF   AN  OLD  MAID.  59 

ihe  gay  world  were  spread  before  me.  I  was 
young,  rich,  and  reputed  handsome ;  my  educa- 
tion had  been  carefully  superintended  by  my  fa- 
ther, who,  while  he  endeavoured  to  store  my  mind 
with  useful  knowledge,  had  <-not  neglected  those 
lighter  accomplishments  that  adorn  and  polish  the 
female  character.  Youth  is  of  itself  so  lovely, 
that  the  deformity  that  renders  its  charms  entirely 
nugatory,  must  be  hideous  indeed.  I  was  sur- 
rounded by  admirers ;  the  voice  of  flattery  was 
ever  in  my  ears,  and  I  pretend  not  that  I  was  in- 
sensible to  its  influence ;  perhaps  a  sense,  some- 
what inordinate,  of  my  own  attractions  did  min- 
gle with  my  thoughts ;  accustomed  to  the  lan- 
guage of  adulation,  perhaps  I  mistook  it  for  that 
of  truth.  Life  seemed  to  me  a  bright  fairy  gar- 
den, glittering  with  sunshine  and  flowers  j  mme 
had  hitherto  been  all  happiness,  and  misery  was 
but  a  name  that  brought  with  it  no  definite  ideas. 
.  Marriage  was  a  subject  so  often  urged  on  my 
attention,  that  it  was  im.possible  my  thoughts 
should  not  frequently  contemplate  it.  I  looked 
upon  it,  indeed,  as  an  event  that  was  sure  to  tak 
place,  and  my  fancy  represented  it  as  the  crown 
ing  stone  of  my  felicity.  Among  an  extensive 
acquaintance,  instances  of  matrimonial  unhappi- 


&>  SOME   PASSAGES  IN  THE 

ness  were  not  wanting,  but  tliey  failed  to  give  me 
an  inifavonrable  impression  of  the  state ;  my  an- 
ticipations were  colom-ed  rather  from  the  happi- 
ness I  had  seen  subsisting  between  my  own  pa- 
rents. But,  while  I  thus  contemplated  the  cer- 
tainty, that,  when  a  few  years  had  been  given  to 
gaiety  and  the  world,  the  time  would  come,  when 
I  should  exchange  them  for  the  refined  elegance 
of  my  own  fireside,  I  had  as  yet  seen  no  one  with 
whom  I  wished  to  share  it ;  I  entertained  exalted 
notions  of  perfection,  to  which  none  of  those  who 
hovered  around  me  attained. 

There  were,  among  my  suitors,  different  shades 
of  excellence,  but  the  highest  point,  to  which  any 
one  had  arrived,  fell  far  below  my  romantic  expec- 
tations. My  imagination  had  united  the  most  op- 
posite virtues  in  one  charming  "  beau  ideal ;"  not 
knowing,  silly  girl,  that  providence  has  not  be- 
stowed upon  any  one  a  superiority  over  the  rest 
of  mankind,  and  ignorant  that  the  most  striking 
virtues  are  commonly  balanced  by  some  opposing 
weakness.  Tlie  world  went  thus  delightfully  with 
me,  when,  in  my  twenty-first  year,  an  often  urged 
request  to  visit  a  sister  of  my  mother,  m  New- 
York,  was  repeated  with  so  much  earnestness, 
that  my  father  perceived  it  must  either  be  accep^ 


LIFE   OF  AN   OLD   MAID;  61" 

ed,  or  my  kind  aunt  seriously  displeased.  There 
existed,  in  fact,  no  obstacle  to  its  acceptance, 
save  in  my  fond  father's  unwillingness  to  part 
with  me. 

My  sister,  now  more  than  fifteen.  Was  anxioug 
to  try  her  skill  in  housekeeping;  novelty  for  me 
had  its  usual  captivations ;  the  common  routine 
of  my  amusements  had  grown  somewhat  w^eari- 
some ;  in  short,  I  was  eager  to  go,  and  though  my 
tongue  said  it  not,  my  eyes  too  plainly  spoke  my 
wishes,  to  leave  my  father  in  doubt. 

"I  see,  Cecilia,"  he  said,  one  day,  when  the  sub- 
ject was  under  discussion,  "how  your  inclina- 
tions point ;  and,  I  admit,  at  your  age  it  is  natu- 
ral to  seek  variety.  If  you  live  to  arrive  at  mine, 
you  will  understand  how  unwillingly  age  relin- 
quishes any  of  the  few  pleasures  that  remain ; 
but  go,  my  love ;  the  pleasure  of  your  return  will 
compensate  me  for  the  parting  pain."  In  gay 
New- York,  I  saw  the  same  scenes  with  different 
actors ;  my  aunt,  grateful  for  my  compliance  with 
her  request,  omitted  nothing  that  could  contribute 
to  my  amusement ;  parties  of  pleasure  occupied 
all  my  time ;  my  father's  wealth  made  me  an  ob- 
ject of  general  attention,  and  my  good  opinion 
of  myself  received  every  confirmation  from  the* 

e 


62  SOME   PASSAGES  IN  THE 

flattering  tongues  around  me.  I  was  at  this  time 
in  imminent  danger  of  becoming  a  heartless,  tri- 
fling being,  a  mere  woman  of  fashion,  when  an 
event  occurred  to  rouse  my  dormant  sensibilities, 
to  fix  them  all  on  one  object,  to  awaken  me  to  a 
happiness  never  before  experienced. 

On  a  sailing  party,  one  day,  the  heedlessness  of 
my  gaiety  precipitated  me  into  the  water.  I  must 
inevitably  have  lost  my  life,  but  for  the  heroism 
of  a  young  gentleman  of  the  party,  who  risked 
his  own  life  to  preserve  mine.  This,  I  know,  is  a 
standard  incident  in  a  novel,  but  such  a  thing 
inay  have  happened  in  real  life.  In  a  novel,  it 
follows  of  course,  that  the  heroine  and  her  pre- 
server are  destined  for  each  other ;  I  was  no  ex- 
ception to  the  general  rule  in  such  cases. 

I  shall  not  describe  Henry  Middleton ;  it  is  suffi- 
cient to  say  I  bestowed  my  heart  upon  him,  with 
all  the  devotedness  of  woman's  love.  Under  the 
disguise  of  gratitude,  I  fostered  a  passion  the  most 
romantic,  the  most  extravagant ;  all  that  I  had 
deemed  happiness  before,  became  distasteful  to 
me  •  his  presence  only  was  capable  of  confer- 
ring pleasure.  Yet,  wholly  as  this  new  sentiment 
possessed  me,  I  had  not  dared  to  give  it  a  name, 
even  to  my  own.  heart,  until  Middleton  had  utter- 


LIFE   OF   AN   OLD   MAID.  68 

ed  words  too  delightful  to  my  ear.  I  had  never 
sought  to  analyze  my  feelings ;  but  when  he  told 
me  I  was  beloved,  I  murmured  a  confession,  in 
words  that  woman's  instinct  renders  always 
guarded.  A  solemn  engagement  was  entered  into 
between  us,  provided,  on  my  part,  that  the  consent 
of  my  father  was  obtained ;  of  this  I  had  not  a 
doubt,  and  considered  my  future  destiny  as  deci- 
ded. Particular  reasons,  which  Middleton  dis- 
closed to  me,  and  of  which  I  felt  the  force,  indu- 
ced him  to  wish  the  engagement  concealed  for  a 
certain  time ;  having  expressly  excepted  my  fa- 
ther and  sister  from  this  arrangement,  I  cared  not 
for  the  concealment,  though  I  should  otherwise 
with  pride  have  avowed  the  object  of  my  choice. 
Meanwhile,  I  had  considerably  exceeded  the 
time  allotted  for  my  visit  in  New- York ;  my  fa- 
ther had  long  been  impatient  for  my  return,  and 
a  day  was  fixed  for  his  departure  from  Boston  to 
conduct  me  home.  I  anticipated,  with  delight,  the 
introduction  of  Middleton  to  my  father ;  they 
were  personally  strangers  to  each  other ;  but  after 
my  escape  from  a  watery  grave,  my  father  had 
written  to  express  his  gratitude  to  Middleton,  and 
a  regular  correspondence  had  ensued  between 
them  J  he  was  well  informed  of  the  state  of  af- 


64  SOME   PASSAGES   IN   THE 

fairs  between  us,  but  had  deferred  his  answer  to 
my  lover's  proposals,  until  he  should  meet  him  in 
New- York. 

I  loved  my  father  passionately,  and  the  better, 
I  thhik,  for  my  new  passion ;  I  was,  indeed,  too 
happy  to  harbour  a  thought  other  than  kind  to- 
wards any  being ;  for  the  happy  are  always  amia- 
ble. When  I  found  myself  folded  in  my  father's 
arms,  I  fo?got  every  thing  but  him,  and  my  happy 
Boston  home.  A  thousand  questions  I  showered 
upon  him  in  a  breath,  and  for  a  time,  Middleton 
was  absent  from  my  thoughts ;  but  for  months  he 
had  occupied  them  too  exclusively,  to  suffer  them 
now  long  to  atray ;  my  eyes  began  to  turn  in  the 
direction  in  v/hich  *.e  alv/ays  came ;  every  rap  at 
the  door  mado  my  heart  bound  responsively,  till 
at  last  he  entered,  ?nd  my  father's  hand  was  ex 
tended  to  him  in  greeting ;  my  sight  failed  me,  I 
forgot  to  look  for  the  impression  produced  on  m] 
father  by  his  sight,  or  rather  I  dared  not  seek  it 
for  the  first  time,  a  doubt,  a  fear,  came  over  me, 
and  I  was  glad  to  fly  to  my  room  for  composure. 
n  My  father  stayed  some  days  in  New-York,  and 
it  was  not  until  the  evening  preceding  our  depar- 
ture, that  he  spoke  to  me  of  INIiddleton.  I  camiot 
tell  how  I  endured  this  suspense  j  from  my  fa 


LIFE  OF   AN   OLD   MAID.  65 

ther's  usual  calm,  grave  manner,  I  could  guess 
nothing ;  but  my  imagination,  ever  active,  con- 
jured up  a  thousand  phantoms ;  his  gravity  seem- 
ed to  me  more  than  usual ;  I  thought  Middleton 
never  appeared  to  so  little  advantage.  I  racked 
my  thoughts  to  discover  if  there  could  be  any 
thing  in  him  to  which  my  father  could  take  excep- 
tion. A  thousand  times  was  I  on  the  point  of  intro- 
ducing the  subject,  but  as  constantly  his  name  died 
on  my  tongue  :  an  inexplicable  fear  haunted  me ; 
I  dreaded  something,  I  knew  not  what. 

The  evening,  as  I  have  said,  preceding  our  de- 
parture, my  father  came  to  my  room ;  1  knew 
that  I  was  now  to  hear  my  fate ;  the  unnatural  ex- 
citement to  which  I  had  been  wrought  subsided, 
and  by  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  I  became 
perfectly  calm.  "  You  know,  Cecilia,"  said  my 
father,  in  his  calm,  soft  tone,  "  that  Mr.  Middle- 
ton  has  asked  my  consent  to  address  you ;  are  you 
willing  to  be  his  wife  ?  have  you  maturely  weigh- 
ed his  character  ?  can  you  think  with  satisfaction 
of  passing  your  whole  life  with  him  ?  Are  you 
sufficiently  assured  of  his  principles  and  affection, 
to  leave  for  him  the  friends  whose  tenderness 
you  have  experienced  through  your  whole  life, 
whose  affection  can  never  fail  ?"    The  solemnity 

6* 


66  SOME   PASSAGES    IN   THE 

of  my  father's  manner  awed  me,  I  buried  my  face 
in  my  hands,  and  could  only  articulate,  "  Is  he  not 
worthy  to  be  beloved  ?" 

But  why  should  I  dwell  upon  scenes  like  this  7 
is  it  the  natural  fondness,  with  which  age  looks 
rback  upon  the  time,  when  love  and  confidence  are 
,cver  springing  fountains  in  the  heart,  and  we  dream 
not  that  falsehood  exists  to  change  them  to  doubt 
and  distrust,  or  that  age  and  apathy,  with  slow, 
hut  sure  approach,  shall  freeze  them  to  the  source  ? 
I  parted  from  my  lover  with  my  father's  ratifica- 
tion of  our  engagement ;  although  a  doubt  he  had 
expressed  of  Middleton's  firmness  and  stability  of 
character,  fbrmed  some  alloy  to  my  happiness ;  but 
Tconsidered  this  suspicion  unjust  to  my  lover,  and 
unworthy  of  my  father. 

In  Boston,  I  returned  not  to  my  usual  course  of 
dissipation ;  my  mind  was  more  seriously  attu- 
ned. I  delighted  in  my  o^vn  thoughts,  which 
painted  ihe  happiness  I  was  to  enjoy  with  Mid- 
flleton ;  I  sought  no  longer  companions  as  gay 
and  thoughtless  as  I  had  formerly  been,  but  en- 
deavoured, in  the  society  of  my  matron  friends, 
to  fit  myself  for  the  duties  I  was  shortly  to  assume. 
The  gay  train  of  beaux  which  had  formerly  ho- 
vered around  me,  renewed  their  attentions  on  my 


Life  of  an  old  maid.  6? 

return,  but  I  received  them  with  a  gravity  thai 
surprised  them  ;  there  was  now  but  one  tongue 
whose  flattery  could  charm  me.  Wearied  with 
compliments  that  no  longer  interested  me,  I  long- 
ed to  declare  my  engagement,  that  it  might  form 
a  barrier  between  me  and  assiduities  that  dis^ist- 
ed  me. 

Emily  was  now  of  an  age  to  appear  in  general 
society  ;  she  had  started  into  a  most  lovely  girl, 
and  was  fitted  by  her  personal  charms,  which  ex- 
ceeded mine,  and  by  the  vivacity  of  her  temper, 
to  take  the  place  I  was  most  willing  to  relinquish  ; 
my  gay  acquaintance,  disgusted  with  my  altered 
manner,  transferred  their  attentions  to  her ;  the 
new  votary  of  pleasure  excited  general  admira- 
tion, and  I  was  allowed  quietly  to  retire  into  the 
seclusion  that  was  most  agreeable  to  me. 

I  am  conscious  that  my  mind  was  not  at  this 
time  in  a  heahhfid  state.  Such  inordinate  devo- 
tion to  a  mortal  object,  I  feel  now  might  have 
l)een  sinful ;  it  was  too  exclusive,  too  confined  a 
love;  occupied  in  considering  only  my  duty  to  this 
one  object,  I  was  in  danger  of  forgetting  the 
claims  of  society,  and  even  of  kindred ;  I  suffer- 
ed my  thoughts  to  dwell,  with  impatience,  upon 
any  thing  unconnected  with  Middleton ;  to  talk  ol 


68  SOME    PASSAGES   IN   THE 

him  to  Emily,  when  she  was  at  leisure  to  listen  to 
me,  to  write  to  him,  and  to  count  the  days  that 
intervened  between  my  letters  from  him,  were  my 
principal  occupations.  Thus  passed  the  summer. 
Conmiunication  between  New- York  and  Boston 
was  not  in  my  young  days  effected,  as  now,  in 
twenty-four  hours.  The  journey  was  then  of 
some  importance.  Owing  to  this,  and  other  cir- 
cumstances of  more  weight,  Middleton  did  not,  as 
I  had  hoped,  visit  Boston. 

My  disappointment,  hoAvever  severe,  was  si- 
lent ;  but  not  so  with  Emily ;  she  openly  express- 
ed her  dissatisfaction  ;  she  was  anxious,  she  said, 
to  see  this  "  Paragon,"  this  "  Phoenix."  "  He  was 
not,"  she  thought,  "  a  very  ardent  lover,  or  he 
would  have  disregarded  every  obstacle  that  kept 
him  from  the  spot  that  contained  his  mistress." 
These  words,  spoken  in  jest,  sent  a  bitter  pang 
through  my  heart ;  a  love  too  apprehensive,  as  I 
thought,  had  shadowed  out  some  dim  fears,  which 
her  thoughtless  words  brought  into  too  bold  an 
outline. 

But  these  were  only  clouds  passing  across  the 
sun  of  my  felicity ;  the  next  morning  a  kind  letter 
from  Middleton  made  every  thing  bright  again. 
At  this  time,  a  letter  arrived  from  my  aunt,  plead- 


LIFE    OF   AN   OLD   MAID.  C9 

ing  for  my  company  again ;  she  was  old,  she 
wrote,  and  childless,  and  needed  the  excitement 
of  youth  and  gaiety ;  and  she  urged  her  claims 
with  the  eloquence  of  age.  My  father  said,  when 
he  handed  me  the  letter,  "  it  is  for  you  to  decide, 
my  dear."  I  could  not  hesitate  a  moment  to  de- 
cline the  mvitation. 

The  following  summer  it  was  arranged  that  I 
should  seek  another  home ;  I  would  not  shorten 
the  time  I  could  be  with  my  father;  and  female 
pride,  or  delicacy,  whispered,  «  your  lover  should 
seek  you ;  be  not  too  forward,  Cecilia."  Not  to 
deny  my  aunt  entirely,  it  was  settled  that  Emily 
should  go  to  her.  Pleased  with  the  wild  delight 
she  expressed,  I  busied  myself  joyfully  with 
the  preparations  for  her  departure ;  a  thousand 
charges  I  gave  her  for  Middleton— bade  her 
write  me  all  she  thought  of  him,  kissed  her,  and 
bade  her  farewell.  Her  first  letter  to  me  was 
nearly  filled  with  praises  of  Middleton.  "He 
was  every  thing  elegant  and  graceful  ,^^  in  person, 
mind,  and  manners,  "  perfection  3"  the  next  was 
nearly  as  extravagant ;  m  the  third,  she  omitted 
his  name,  and  afterwards  seldom  mentioned  him. 
In  Middleton's  letters,  his  commendations  appear- 
ed constrained.  It  occurred  to  me,  that  Emily  had 


70  SOME    PASSAGES   IN   THE 

not  made  so  favourable  an  impression  as  she  had 
received,  and  perhaps  I  was  not  displeased  to 
think  that  love  for  me  rendered  him  insensible 
to  all  other  beauty  and  merit  ' 

Winter  passed  in  quietness  and  retirement ;  the 
time  was  drawing  near  which  had  been  set  for 
Emily's  retm-n,  for  which  I  had  latterly  begim  to 
feel  strangely  anxious.  She  had  ceased  to  write 
to  me,  and  her  letters  to  our  father  were  brief  and 
constrained,  and  at  intervals  somewhat  long. 
IVhen  I  complained  of  this,  she  ans^vered,  she 
had  not  time  to  write.  I  had  heard,  in  many  ways, 
how  gay  a  life  she  led,  and  how  much  she  was 
admired;  and  once  I  had  heard  some  hint  of 
a  lover  ;  and  I  knew  that,  while  love  renders 
some  voluble,  in  others  it  chains  the  tongue.  In 
this  manner  I  accounted  for  Emily's  conduct , 
but  that  of  Middleton  was  more  mysterious.  Why 
were  his  letters  so  evidently  changed  ;  though  I 
scarce  knew  how  changed  ;  something  there  was 
different,  though  I  could  settle  upon  nothing  de- 
cided. I  meditated  upon  this,  imtil  my  brain 
swanij  and  I  longed  for  the  arrival  of  Emily  to 
restore  my  composure  by  explaining  all  that 
alarmed  me. 

She  came  at  last,  cold,  embarrassed,  and  un- 


LIFE   OF  AN   OLD   MAID.  71 

happy,  as  I  thouglit,  but  it  might  be  fatigue,  or 
grief  at  parting  with  some  dear  friend  j  at  all 
events,  I  had  always  been  her  confidant  and  ad- 
viser, and  she  would,  doubtless,  tell  me  all  that 
concerned  her.  Mr.  Middleton  was  well,  she  said, 
and  she  was  the  bearer  of  a  letter  from  him ;  as 
she  handed  it  to  me,  a  deep  blush  flushed  her 
cheek,  and  her  eye  fell  under  mine.  Something 
unpleasant  crossed  my  mind  at  the  momejit,  but 
my  thoughts  were  all  with  my  letter ;  its  style  of 
affected  pleasantry  pierced  my  heart,  and  brought 
confirmation,  rather  than  relief  to  my  fears ;  the 
blush,  the  quailing  eye,  recurred  to  my  troubled 
imagination ;  a  horrible  suspicion  glanced  an  in- 
stant across  my  mind.  I  strove  in  vain  to  banish 
it,  I  flew  to  my  room.  Oh  love !  I  cried,  to  what 
meanness  dost  thou  lead  me !  Oh  Middleton ! 
shall  a  wild  passion  lead  me  to  doubt  your  ho- 
nour and  my  sister's  friendship ! 

Notwithstanding  I  hated  myself  for  harbouring 
these  thoughts,  they  continued  to  haunt  me.  I 
sought  a  private  conversation  with  Emily,  in  the 
hope  of  ending  my  inquietude,  but  she  shunned 
me;  she  was  always  going  out,  or  had  some 
young  companion  with  her,  whose  presence  en- 
tirely precluded  confidential  conversation.    This 


72  SOME   PASSAGES   IN   THE 

suspense  was  torturing ;  I  said  to  myself,  "  the 
worst  certainty  is  preferable  to  this  racking  doubt.'' 
But  I  was  mistaken  ;  I  was  soon  to  feel  that  it  is 
sometimes  bliss  to  doubt,  compared  with  the  mise- 
ry of  having  nothing  to  hope.  Chance  at  last  re- 
moved every  shade  of  suspense. 

Going  as  usual,  one  day,  to  Emily's  room,  in 
the  hope  of  finding  her  alone,  I  met  her  on  the 
stairs  prepared  to  go  out.  Disappointed,  I  stopped 
short.  "I  was  going  to  sit  with  you,"  I  said, 
"but  I  see  you  mean  to  walk."  "  Yes,"  she  said,  en- 
deavouring to  pass  me,  "  I  have  some  business ; 
some  other  time  you  must "  She  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  noise  as  of  some  one  falling,  accom- 
panied by  a  scream ;  we  both  hastily  ran  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  sound,  and  found  one  of  the  domes- 
tics had  fallen  down  a  flight  of  stairs,  and  sprain- 
ed her  ancle.  After  ascertaining  the  extent  of  the 
injury,  I  left  Emily  bathing  the  limb,  and  proceed- 
ed to  my  room  for  a  bandage.  On  the  stairs, 
where  I  had  met  Emily,  I  perceived  a  letter 
lying ;  I  took  it  up,  and  saw  with  feelings  it 
is  in  vain  to  describe,  that  it  was  directed  to 
"^  Henry  Middleton."  I  did  not  faint,  I  did  not  for 
a  moment  lose  my  senses.  I  was  perfectly  com- 
posed ;  the  case  was  plain  enough,  and  I  felt  all 


LIFE   OF   AN   OLD   MAID.  73 

the  calmness  that  arises  from  having  nothing 
left  to  hope  or  fear.  I  concealed  the  letter  in  my 
bosom,  then  returned,  and  assisted  to  bandage  the 
bruised  limb.  When  all  was  done,  I  returned  to 
my  room,  and,  with  the  evidence  of  the  guilt  of 
my  lover  and  my  sister  before  me,  meditated 
upon  the  course  it  was  mcumbent  on  me  to  pursue. 
I  heard  Emily  come  to  the  stairs,  go  to  her  room, 
quit  it,  and  again  return ;  I  knew  she  was  search- 
ing for  the  letter,  and,  miserable  as  I  was,  I  pitied 
her,  quaking  under  the  terrors  of  detected  guilt. 

Having  settled  how  I  should  act,  I  took  the  let- 
ter in  my  hand  and  went  to  her  room ;  as  I  ap- 
proached, I  heard  her  pacing  the  floor.  How  of- 
ten, of  late,  had  I  felt  that  mental  inquietude 
which  will  not  suffer  the  body  to  remain  stationa- 
ry !  I  knocked  at  the  door ;  a  faint  voice  said, 
"  come  in :"  as  I  entered,  she  blushed,  fixed  her 
eye  upon  the  letter,  which  I  held  in  my  hand,  and 
grew  very  pale.  I  laid  the  letter  down ;  "  You 
have  been  looking  for  this,'^  I  said,  "and  perhaps, 
had  rather  I  had  not  found  it ;  I  can  account  but 
in  one  way,  for  a  clandestine  correspondence  be- 
tween my  sister  and  Mr,  Middleton ;  it  is  for  you 
to  say,  if  I  am  not  right." 

In  a  voice,  she  vainly  endeavoured  to  render 

7 


74  SOME   PASSAGES   IN   THE 

firm,  she  said,  "  I  had  a  commission  for  Mr.  Mid- 
dleton,  but  I  thought  you  would  be  jealous  if  you 
were  to  know  that  I  write  to  him."  "  Not,  surely, 
if  I  were  acquainted  with  the  cause ;  not  if  it  were 
done  openly ;  surely  I  could  not  easily  be  made 
jealous  of  my  sister ;  but  I  am,  I  confess,  a  poor 
weak  creature;  it  is  the  infirmity  of  too  fond  an 
affection  for  you,  as  well  as  for  Mr.  Middleton, 
Emily,  which  makes  me  thus  doubtful  of  Avhat 
you  say  j  if  you  speak  thre  truth,  make  me  blush 
for  my  suspicions ;  permit  me  to  open  this  letter." 
"  No,"  she  said,  hastily  catching  the  letter,  "  it  is 
private ;  besides,"  with  a  quiverm  g  voice,  "  I  will 
not  condescend  thus  to  remove  suspicions  you 
should  blush  to  entertain."  "  Oh !"  said  I,  trem- 
bling with  agitation,  and  catching  her  arm,  "  you 
are  but  a  novice  in  falsehood,  Emily,  b^t  I  must 
know  all;  you  love  Middleton;  tell  me^  by 
yom*  truth  and  conscience  tell  me,  has  he  sought 
your  love?"  There  is  something  appalling  in 
the  vehemence  of  passion.  She  trembled  ;  her 
face  was  deadly  pale.  "  Let  me  go,"  she  almost 
shrieked,  "  you  are  mad."  "  I  am  not  mad,  but 
you  can  make  me  so,  by  refusing  to  answer  my 
question  5  has  Middleton  not  sought  your  love  ?" 
Still  no  answer  j  but  her  silence  was  sufficient. 


LIFE    OT   AN    OXD    MAT©.  75 

How  weak  are  the  resolutions  we  fonn,  while 
the  danger  we  dread  is  yet  at  a  distance  j  I  had 
determined  to  be  mild  and  moderate ;  to  pierce 
her  with  contempt,  if,  indeed,  she  was  worthy  of 
it ;  but  nature  would  have  its  way ;  I  knew  my 
eyes  were  wild,  my  face  flushed.  "I  see,"  I  said, 
"I  have  no  longer  a  sister,  no  longer  a  lover;  but, 
wretched  as  your  perfidy  has  made  me,  happy  as 
you  may  be  in  reciprocated  affection,  at  this  mo- 
ment I  rejoice  that  I  am  not  as  you  are.  Con- 
tempt will  soon  cure  me  of  my  love ",  but  what 
can  soothe  remorse,  that  shall  as  surely  come  to 
you  as  light  follows  the  sun  ?  what  shall  relieve 
the  satiety  of  passion,  which  is  not  rooted  in 
esteem  ?" 

Emily  was  overcome ;  she  caught  me  by  my 
dress ;  "  Hate  me,"  she  said,  "  load  me  with  re- 
proaches ;  you  cannot  say  any  thing  so  bitter  as 
my  own  conscience  whispers ;  well  have  you  said, 
you  cannot  be  half  so  ^^Tetched  as  I  am ;  yet,  oh, 
Ceciltfi,  I  struggled  long  against  this  fatal  passion; 
I  was  not  easily  made  so  vile  to  you  ;  I  will  even 
now  relinquish  him  if  you  bid  me  do  it."  "  I  bid 
you  ?  Oh  no !  to  me  he  can  henceforth  be  nothing. 
Yet,  Emily,  consider  well  what  you  do.  False 
once,  he  may  be  false  again ;  give  him  not  up  ^  »^r 


76  SOME  PASSAGES  IN  THE 

heart  as  I  have  done,  lest  you  should  be  deceived 
as  I  have  been." 

I  went  to  the  door.  "  Stay,  my  sister,"  sobbed 
Emily,  hanging  on  me,  "  my  father, — you  are  his 
favourite ;— if  he  should  know  of  this,— Oh  Hea- 
vens !"  I  saw  what  she  wished.  "  If  you  do  not 
mean  that  he  shall  know  what  this  hour  has  re- 
vealed, I  will  gladly  spare  him  the  pain ;  and,  for 
yourself,  Emily,  consider  well  what  you  do." — I 
flew  to  my  room,  threw  myself  upon  the  bed,  and 
bitter  tears  gushed  in  torrents. — After  a  long  time 
given  to  the  indulgence  of  this  transport,  I  took 
from  my  neck  the  miniature  of  Middleton,  en- 
closed it  in  a  package  with  his  letters,  wrote  a  long 
letter  to  Emily,  in  which  I  desired  her  to  return 
them  to  Mr.  Middleton,  and  request  mine  in  return ; 
advised  her  earnestly  not  to  continue  a  connexion, 
which  regard  for  her  father's  happiness  made  it 
necessary  to  conceal,  and  to  which  she  could  ne- 
ver hope  his  sanction ;  informed  her  of  the  course 
I  had  determined  to  pursue ;  and  begged  the  sub- 
ject might  never  again  be  referred  to  between  us. 
I  sent  an  excuse  to  my  father  for  not  appearing 
at  the  tea  table,  and  devoted  the  evening  to  these 
employments. 

W^len  all  was  done,  when  I  had  no  longer  the 


LIFE  OF  AN   OLD  MAID.  T? 

relief  of  action,  I  felt  all  the  misery,  all  the  anfulsh 
of  my  lot;  I  camiot  now  look  back  upon  that 
night  without  a  shudder.  It  was  impossible  that 
I  should  continue  in  the  house  with  Emily,  and 
not  betray  to  my  father  that  something  was  wrong 
between  us;  I  pleadedtherefore  indisposition,  and 
requested  permission  to  visit  a  friend  in  the  coun- 
try. I  flattered  myself,  that  new  objects  might  in 
some  measure  divert  my  mind. 

On  my  arrival,  I  wrote  to  my  father  that  cir- 
cumstances, into  which  I  trusted  he  would  not 
inquire,  had  induced  me  to  put  an  end  to  my  en- 
gagement with  Mr.  Middleton ;  as  he  had  the 
goodness  to  desire  only  my  happiness,  I  wished 
him  to  feel  assured  that  Mr.  Middleton  could  never 
constitute  it.  My  father's  answer  was  as  I  wished 
and  expected,  and  a  letter  from  Emily  was  ac- 
companied by  my  part  of  the  correspondence  with 
Middleton. 

All  was  now  over ;  I  had  leisure  to  turn  my 
mind  to  other  thoughts,  I  called  the  aid  of  reason, 
of  philosophy  fe  banish  all  traces  of  a  passion, 
unfortunate,  and  unworthy  of  me.  I  sought,  in 
variety  of  occupation,  to  divert  my  mind  from  one 
contemplation.  I  had  never  lived  much  in  the 
country,  and  I  had  hoped  that  the  novelty  of  my 

7* 


78  SOME  PASSAGES  IN  THE 

life  would  do  much  toward  my  cure ;  but  I  was 
wrong  to  seek  for  composure  in  retirement ;  I 
should  have  entered  the  busy  world  instead ;  action, 
excitement,  were  what  I  wanted.  In  the  place 
I  had  chosen,  I  felt  no  interest  in  the  inhabitants ; 
we  had  no  ideas  in  common,  their  company  was 
distasteful  to  me,  it  contrasted  too  unfavourably 
with  what  I  had  formerly  enjoyed ;  their  opinion 
was  indifferent  to  me,  and  I  ceased  to  think  of  it, 
or  them.  I  had  no  motive  for  exertion ;  to  force 
my  mind  from  one  painful  thought,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  supply  it  with  other  objects ;  but  nothing 
had  power  to  interest  me ;  I  wandered  listlessly 
about  the  house,  or  roamed  for  hours  in  the  most 
secluded  spot  I  could  discover ;  I  sunk  into  a  state 
of  feelmg,  worse  even  than  the  transports  of  de- 
spair. I  cannot  better  descibe  my  state  than  in 
the  words  of  a  more  recent  poet, 

"  One  fatal  remembrance,  one  sorrow,  that  throws 
Its  dark  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes, 
To  which  life  nothing  brighter  nor  darker  can  bring, 
For  which  joy  hath  no  balm  and  affliction  no  sting." 

From  this  state  of  apathy  I  was  awakened  by  a 
shock  even  more  severe  than  that  which  had 
brought  me  so  low.    I  thought  joy  and  sorrow 


LIFE   OF   AN   OLD  MAID.  tO 

had  lost  their  power  over  me.  I  had  yet  to  learn 
how  much  the  heart  can  endure,  ere  it  "  forgets 
itself  to  stone." 

I  had  been  three  months  in  the  country,  when 
a  messenger  arrived  from  Boston,  announcing  the 
dangerous  illness  of  my  father.  Roused,  as  by  a 
thunderbolt,  I  scarcely  breathed  until  I  found  my- 
self on  the  road  to  Boston ;  the  natural  vehemence 
of  my  temper,  that  I  had  thought  forever  gone, 
returned,  and  the  speed  of  the  winds  would  have 
been  insufficient  for  my  impatience.  1  stopped 
not'  for  rest,  or  refreshment.  By  profuse  promises, 
I  prevailed  upon  my  driver  to  expedite  my  pro- 
gress. I  arrived  in  time ;  kind  nature  sustained 
me  to  receive  my  father's  blessing,  to  catch  his 
last  breath,  to  close  his  eyes.  Then  a  deadl}^  sick- 
ness came  over  me ;  I  fell,  and  awoke  not  to  the 
consciousness  of  my  loss  for  many  weeks :  these 
are  scenes  which  memory  shudders  at, — let  me 
hurry  on.  I  foimd  my  kind  aunt  by  my  bedside; 
she  had,  notwithstanding  her  age,  hastened  to 
B.oston  immediately  upon  hearing  of  my  illness ; 
her  kindness  was  unwearied,  and  her  mild  and 
judicious  consolations  restored  me  to  some  degree 
of  composure. 

I  was  able  now  to  thmk  of  Emily  and  Middleton 


80  SOME    PASSAGES   IN   THE 

without  shuddering ;  the  loss  of  my  father  had 
rendered  that  of  my  lover  comparatively  light ; 
as  the  tenth  wave  of  the  sea  effaces  the  trace  of 
the  preceding.  By  my  father's  death,  his  daugh- 
ters were  left  the  richest  heiresses  in  New-Eng- 
iand.  My  aunt  requested  me  to  reside  with  her ; 
Emily,  she  said,  would  ere  long  have  a  home  of 
her  own.  I  sighed  at  this  speech,  but  made  no 
comment.  "  Indeed,"  continued  my  aunt,  "  I 
have  desired  that  the  marriage  should  take  place 
immediately,  we  should  not  throw  away  our 
happiness  upon  tlie  forms  of  the  world  ;  Emily's 
grief  has  been  too  much  for  her  constitution ;  she 
will  find  the  most  effectual  consolation  in  the  ten- 
derness of  a  husband.  Have  you,  my  love,  any 
objections  to  the  marriage  of  Emily  taking  place 
at  once,  with  the  utmost  privacy  ?"  I  gasped  at 
this  question,  but  answered,  "  none,  if  Emily  can 
think  of  marriage  at  such  a  time." 

But  let  me  be  brief  in  what  remains  to  be  told : 
Emily  was  married  to  Middleton,  three  months 
after  the  death  of  my  father.  I  could  not  avoid 
being  present  at  the  ceremony,  without  betraying 
what  it  was  necessary  to  conceal ;  I  summoned 
all  my  courage  for  the  effort,  and  it  did  not  desert 
me.    "N^Hiat  miraculous  power  has  the  mind  over 


LIFE  OF  AN   OLD  MAID.  81 

the  body  !  I  met  Middleton,  for  the  first  time  as 
the  betrothed  husband  of  Emily,  with  a  calm  de- 
meanour, an  unfaltering  voice;  I  stood  with  them 
at  the  altar,  as  the  Indian  at  the  stake,  and  mine 
was  the  only  voice  that  quivered  not,  the  only 
cheek  that  kept  its  colour. 

Immediately  after  the  marriage,  which  took 
place  in  the  morning,  my  aunt  and  myself  took 
leave  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  who  were  to 
inhabit  my  father's  house,  Mr.  IVIiddleton  having 
abandoned  his  profession  of  the  law,  and  estab- 
lished himself  in  Boston,  as  a  merchant.  We 
proceeded  to  New-York,  which  has  since  been 
my  home.  Ten  years  flew  over  m.y  head  without 
material  change. 

You  will  not  be  surprised,  for  you  know  some- 
thing of  human  nature,  to  learn  that  an  idea  of 
marrying  glanced  across  my  mind;  wounded 
pride  urged  me  to  marry,  lest  Middleton  should 
believe  a  lurking  tenderness  for  him  kept  me 
single.  But  this  suggestion  was  supported  by  no 
auxiliary ;  reason  and  principle  told  me,  I  should 
not  on  such  motives  contract  a  connexion  so  in-* 
timate,  and  my  heart,  I  believed,  was  forever 
closed  to  impressions  of  tenderness.  I  did  not 
long  debate  the  matter  with  myself;  at  twenty- 


82  SOME  PASSAGES  IN  THE 

five,  I  was  as  decidedly  an  "  old  maid"  as  now, 
when  more  than  seventy  years  have  marked  their 
furrows  on  my  brow.  Ten  years  passed  away 
in  the  tranquillity  of  an  active  and  useful  life. 

My  affections,  diverted  from  the  usual  channel, 
spread  themselves  in  numerous  streams ;  my  large 
fortune  furnished  me  with  means  of  enjoyment, 
tliat,  in  the  exclusiveness  of  youthful  passion,  I 
had  neglected. 

So  calm,  so  satisfying,  was  my  life  thus  spent, 
that  I  wondered  I  could  have  been  unhappy ;  my 
feelings  forMiddletonhad  long  subsided  into  quiet- 
ness, not  unmingled  with  contempt.  Perhaps 
you  may  be  interested  in  his  fate.  After  his  mar- 
riage, intoxicated  with  the  possession  of  a  large 
fortune,  he  commenced  a  career  of  extravagance, 
to  which  the  largest  possessions  would  have  been 
inadequate,  in  which  he  was  fully  seconded  by 
the  thoughtless  Emily.  A  prudent  partner  had 
for  some  tim€  averted  the  catastrophe  which  such 
conduct  could  not  fail  to  produce  ;  but  at  the  ex- 
piration of  ten  years  he  was  involved  in  debt,  and 
declared  a  bankrupt.  From  this  distress  he  was 
relieved  by  the  death  of  my  aunt.  I  had  seen 
them  but  once  since  their  marriage,  and  then  re- 
monstrated with  Emily,  in  strong  terms,  at  the 


LIFE  OF  AN    OLD  ST  AH).  83 

niinous  course  they  were  pursuing.  She  felt 
mortified  and  displeased.  I  was  not  disposed 
to  temporize,  and  we  parted  with  mutually  un- 
pleasant feelings  towards  each  other.  My  aunt, 
disgusted  with  their  conduct,  determined  to  leave 
them  nothing ;  but  at  my  earnest  request,  con- 
sented to  make  Emily  equal  with  myself ;  a  moiety 
of  Emily's  part  was  secured  to  her  children,  and 
the  remainder  was  appropriated  to  re-establish 
her  husband  in  business. 

The  summer  following  the  death  of  my  aunt, 
I  joined  a  party  of  friends  to  make  the  tour  of 
Europe.  We  visited  successively,  "■merry  Eng- 
land," France,  Switzerland,  Italy,  AiTstxia,  and 
Germany,  and,  on  our  homeward  route,  spent  a 
few  months  in  Spain.  To  me  this  tour  abounded 
with  objects  of  interest  aikl  pleasure ;  yet,  among 
all  the  treasures  of  art,  all  the  stores  of  learning, 
I  turned  to  my  o^vn  happy  America,  with  the 
fullest  conviction  of  the  happiness  of  calling  it  my 
home.  My  correspondence  with  my  sister  had 
for  some  years  been  very  irregular ;  I  Avrote  to 
her  frequently  while  in  Europe,  but  received  not 
a  line  from  her ;  it  was  not  until  I  visited  England, 
for  the  second  time,  that  I  heard  from  an  acquaint- 
ance of  the  distressed  condition  of  her  affairs 


84  SOME  PASSAGES  IN  THE 

My  informant  had  just  arrived  from  America,  and, 
previous  to  his  departure,  the  bankruptcy  of  Mid- 
dloton,  for  the  second  time,  had  been  declared. 
His  creditors,  much  exasperated  against  him,  had 
seized  every  thing  they  could  obtain,  and  nothing 
remained  to  my  unfortunate  sister,  but  the  slender 
interest  derived  from  the  fortune  of  her  children. 

On  hearing  this  account,  all  my  former  affection 
for  Emily  revived ;  I  had  thought  her  conduct  had 
extinguished  the  tenderness  of  nature ;  but  those 
feelings  are  implanted  with  our  life,  and  end  but 
with  our  existence.  I  immediately  took  leave  of 
my  friends,  and  sailed  in  the  first  vessel  for  Ame- 
rica. Arrived  in  New- York,  I  made  no  longer 
delay  than  was  sufficient  to  make  the  necessary 
mquiries,  but  proceeded  at  once  to  Boston ;  I 
found  Emily  in  lodgings,  much  distressed  ;  her 
children's  fortune  supplied  her  with  the  necessa- 
ries of  life,  but  her  husband  was  confined  for  debt ; 
and  the  inexorableness  of  his  creditors  left  him 
no  hope  of  a  speedy  release. 

I  saw  Middleton  immediately ;  what  a  change 
was  there  !  I  gazed  at  the  smiken  eye,  the  attenu- 
ated frame,  where  dissipation  and  excess  had  im- 
printed their  ineffaceable  marks,  and  thought,  can 
this  be  he  whom  I  once  deemed  worthy  of  little 


LIFE  OF   AN  OLD  MAID.  85 

less  than  idolatry?  Having  ascertained  the  amount 
of  his  debts,  I  devoted  the  property  I  received 
from  my  aunt,  to  discharging  them  in  equal  pro- 
portions. His  creditors,  satisfied  that  nothing 
more  could  be  obtained,  and  pleased  with  my  con- 
duct, gave  him  a  discharge.  An  old  friend  of  my 
father  offered  him  a  situation  in  India,  that  held 
forth  advantages  greater  than  he  had  any  right 
to  expect.  I  took  upon  myself  the  care  of  his 
children,  (two  lovely  girls  only  remaining  out  of 
seven,)  and  his  wife,  if  she  should  determine  not 
to  accompany  him.  Some  faint  ideas  of  duty^ 
mingled  with  an  aversion  to  go  with  him,  caused 
some  hesitation  in  her  mind,  which  was  quickly 
ended  by  her  husband's  hardly  suppressed  desire 
not  to  be  troubled  with  her.  Poor  Emily !  my 
prophecies  were  fulfilled,  and  I  pitied  her  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

Every  thing  was  speedily  arranged  for  his  de- 
parture, and,  fifteen  years  after  his  marriage,  at 
the  age  of  forty-two,  he  left  his  country,  to  which 
he  was  destined  never  to  return.  Emily,  shat- 
tered in  health  and  spirits,  became,  with  her 
children,  members  of  my  family.  I  soon  saw 
that  her  life  would  not  be  of  long  continuance, 
and  I  saw  also  with  bitter  anguish,  that  I  must 

8 


86  SOME   PASSAGES   IN   THE 

not  hope  to  revive  in  her  the  affection  of  our  ear- 
lier years.  The  same  thing  that  made  her  now 
dearer  to  me  than  ever,  operated  in  her  against 
tenderness.  A  feehng  of  inferiority,  an  over- 
powering weiglit  of  obhgation,  repressed  all  other- 
feelings  in  her  breast ;  a  degree  of  equality  is- 
necessary  for  friendship,  and  she  felt  herself  de- 
pressed too  far  below  me.  There  was  in  her  na 
inward  strength  to  resist  misfortune ;  she  lingered 
not  many  months ;  and  on  her  death  bed  she  said 
to  me,  "  Wlio  would  not  think  mine  should  have 
been  the  happier  lot  in  life  ?  I  was  never  crossed 
in  a  single  wish ;  married  to  the  man  of  my  choice, 
I  may  say,  '  cursed  with  every  granted  prayer ;' 
while  your  affections  have  been  crushed  by  false- 
hood in  its  direst  form ;  you  saw  the  man  you 
loved  married  to  another ;  yet  you  have  had  years 
of  happiness,  while  I  have  never  felt  a  single  mo- 
ment of  unalloyed  felicity.  My  sister,  teach  my 
children  the  moral  of  our  story !  They  are  yours ; 
their  father  will  never  return  to  claim  them ;  but 
teach  them  to  think  with  tenderness  of  their 
MTCtched  mother,  who  has  so  dearly  expiated  her 
treachery  to  you." 

Long  and  bitterly  did  I  mourn  her,  but  her 
children  supplied  me  with  objects  of  interest,  in 


LIFE  OF  AN   OLD  MAID.  87 

which  my  heart  might  fully  expand  itself.  Care- 
fully have  I  reared  them,  and  well  do  they  repay 
my  care.  The  eldest,  Ceciha,  is  a  wife  and  mo- 
ther, and  her  children  are  so  much  with  me,  that 
I  have  no  leisure  to  pet  cats  and  parrots.  My 
Emily  is  still  with  me,  and  says  she  will  be  an 
*'  old  maid"  to  honour  my  example ;  but  yester- 
day I  saw  her  blush  deeply  at  the  entrance  of  a 
favourite  young  friend  of  mine,  who  is  kind  enough 
to  fxud  a  great  deal  of  instruction  in  my  conver- 
sation. Wliat  this  means,  time  I  suppose  will 
discover.  Meanwhile,  I  am  happy  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  all  that  remains  to  age ;  and,  grateful  for 
the  blessings  I  have  enjoyed  in  this  hfe,  I  await 
in  humble  hope  the  summons  that  shall  call  me 
to  eternity.  ****** 


WHAT  IS  THAT,  MOTHER? 

BY   THE   REV.   G.   W.   DOANE. 


What  is  that,  mother  1 

The  lark,  my  child ! 
The  moon  has  but  just  looked  out  and  smiled, 
When  he  starts  from  Ws  humble,  grassy  nest, 
And  is  up  and  away,  with  the  dew  on  his  breast 


88  WHAT    IS   THAT,   MOTHER? 

And  a  hymn  in  his  heart,  to  yon  pure  bright  sphere, 

To  warble  it  out  in  his  Maker's  ear — 
Ever,  my  child,  be  thy  morning  lays 
Tuned,  like  the  lark's,  to  thy  Maker's  praise. 

What  is  that,  mother  1 

The  dove,  my  son ! 
And  that  low  sweet  voice,  like  a  widow's  moan. 
Is  flowing  out  from  her  gentle  breast, 
Constant  and  pure,  by  that  lonely  nest. 
As  the  wave  is  poured  from  some  crystal  urn, 
For  her  distant  dear  one's  quick  return — 
Ever,  my  son,  be  thou  like  the  dove, 
In  friendship  as  faithful,  as  constant  in  love ! 

Wliat  is  that,  mother  1 

The  eagle,  boy ' 
Proudly  careering  his  course  of  joy ; 
Firm,  on  bis  own  mountain  vigour  relying, 
Breasting  the  dark  storm,  the  red  bolt  defying — 
His  wing  on  the  wind,  and  his  eye  in  the  sun, 
He  swerves  not  a  hair,  but  bears  onward,  right  on^ 
Boy !  may  the  eagle's  flight  ever  be  thine, 
Onward,  and  upward,  and  true  to  the  line ! 

What  is  that,  mother  ? 

The  swan,  my  love  ! 
He  is  floating  down  from  his  native  ffxo\e  j 


THE   seaman's   widow.  f¥,) 

No  loved  one  now,  no  nestling  nigh, 
He  is  floating  down  by  himself  to  die  4 
Death  darkens  his  eye,  and  unplumes  his  wings, 
Yet  his  sweetest  song  is  the  last  he  sincrs — 
Live  so,  my  love,  that  when  death  shall  come, 
Swan-like  and  sweet,  it  may  wail  thee  home ! 


THE  SEAMAN'S  WIDOW. 

BY  GRENVILLE   MELLEN. 


In  one  of  those  beauiifiil  indentures  that  mark 
the  coast  of  Long  Island,  was  some  years  ago  to 
be  seen  a  small,  but  neat  building,  at  that  time 
occupied  by  an  officer  in  the  naval  service  of  the 
Republic,  A.t  the  first  glance  it  seemed  to  be  a 
dwelling  place  well  designed  for  a  son  of  the 
ocean.  Situated  almost  upon  the  borders  of  the 
sea,  the  eye  was  perpetually  filled  with  its  vast- 
ness  and  wonders,  while  the  music  of  its  waves, 
whether  in  their  stormiest  or  laziest  flow,  was 
distinctly  and  continually  heard  there.  The  spot, 
too,  was  cultivated,  and  wore  an  air  of  seclusion, 
that  in  another  age  would  have  been  called  ro- 
mantic.    Tall  overhanging    trees  grew  round 

8* 


90  THE  seaman's  widow. 

about,  and  waved  over  the  low  roof,  while  the 
land,  in  the  shape  of  a  lawn,  sloped  away  in  fine 
verdure  to  the  shore.  The  prospect  of  the  Sound 
was  extensive  and  delightful ;  for,  though  the  re- 
sidence was  at  the  head  of  a  small  bay,  still,  as 
the  land  lay  low  on  all  sides,  its  position  afforded 
a  wide  reach  of  water  scenery.  Taste  and  order 
reigned  round  the  dwelling ;  and  you  might  see 
there  the  honeysuckle  and  woodbine  clambering 
in  at  door  and  M^ndow,  until  the  little  place  seem- 
ed to  be  almost  embowered.  In  short,  it  was  a 
place  of  beautiful  quiet — one  of  those  places  that 
we  dream  about,  and  pant  to  fly  to,  when  weary 
with  the  ways  of  men  and  the  thousand  heavy 
and  disheartening  things  of  life. 

To  this  retreat,  soon  after  his  marriage.  Captain 
Kirkwood  retired  with  his  young  and  lovely  wife. 
He  had  served  long  and  well.  Honour  he  had 
won,  and  with  death  he  had  been  familiar  in  his 
course  of  high  endeavour  and  perilous  struggle 
for  his  land,  and  he  had  been  successful.  Next 
came  the  reward  of  beauty  and  worth,  and  he 
called  himself  happy.  In  the  flush  of  life,  with  a 
reputation  that  was  ringing  about  him,  he  mar- 
ried a  woman  in  whom  he  had  found  accomplish- 
ment united  with  affisction,  and  loveliness  with 


THE  SEAMAN  S  WIDOW.  91 

all  virtue.  She  looked  on  him  with  pride,  for  hia 
character  and  his  fame ;  and  he  on  her  with  de- 
light, for  the  hallowed  purity  of  her  heart.  Here- 
tofore he  had  heard  enough  of  praise  from  all 
quarters  j  he  now  wished  for  a  still  and  concen- 
trated admiration,  and  he  saw  it  offered  in  the 
person  of  one,  who  was  indeed  a  prize  to  him, 
for  he  had  borne  her  away  from  a  throng  of  ad- 
mirers, with  wit  and  wealth  for  their  portion.  It 
is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that,  living  just  as  he 
did,  and  where  he  did,  he  was  eminently  happy. 
His  youthful  wife,  while  she  was  Helen  Fraser, 
had  been  celebrated  for  her  beauty.  She  was  then 
giddy  with  the  applause  that  murmured  round 
her  wherever  she  went.  She  was  the  glittering 
centre  of  the  circle  that  she  charmed  about  her, 
not  because  she  was  strikingly  wise,  or  by  any 
means  magical  in  her  attractions,  but  because  she 
had  so  much  heart  in  her  manner,  and  so  much 
do"vvnright  kmdness  mingling  with  the  natural 
pride  of  the  station  which  all  had  willingly  as- 
signed her.  She  had  grown  up  thus  far  in  fashion- 
able life,  ever  retaining,  however,  a  wonderful 
spirit — energetic,  deep-toned,  full  of  sympathy, 
but  totally  inexperienced,  and  with  a  heart  whose 
pure  elements  the  world  had  not  contaminated  or 


92  THE  seaman's  widow. 

touched.  Such  as  we  have  here  described  her, 
she  gave  her  heart  fervently  to  James  Kirkwood, 
who  inherited  httle  else  but  a  competency  and  his 
good  fame. 

Yet  Helen  Fraser  had  no  idea,  when  she  mar- 
ried Kirkwood,  that  she  put  her  happiness  into 
great  risk.  She  thought  not  of  the  dangers  of  his 
profession,  and  that  the  chances  of  life  were  di- 
minished by  his  being  in  it.  She  thought  only 
of  its  glory.  As  to  leaving  her  companions,  and 
the  'pride  of  place'  she  held  in  an  admiring  group 
of  friends,  it  was  nothing  to  her.  Instead  of  be- 
ing gazed  at,  she  was  now  but  taking  her  turn  to 
gaze  at  the  world,  and  to  learn  something  of  its 
realities.  Besides,  her  friends  were  near  her. 
The  spires  and  vanes  of  the  city  were  in  view ; 
and  while  she  could  see  them  glitter  in  the  light 
of  morning  and  evening,  and  hear  the  hum  of  the 
metropolis  stealing  out  on  the  breeze,  she  felt  as 
though  all  former  ties  were  as  yet  unsevered,  and 
that  even  were  Kirkwood  called  suddenly  away, 
a  moment  of  time  would  bring  her  friends  to  her, 
or  carry  her  back  to  her  friends. 

And  such  a  time  had  now  come— already  come, 
while  yet  the  bridal  wreath  was  fresh  upon  her 
brows.     It  was  a  time  of  trouble,  and  for  purposes 


THE  seaman's  widow.  93 

of  protection,  it  became  necessary  to  despatch  a 
force  to  thfi  Mediterranean.  The  ship  to  which 
Kirkwood  was  attached,  was  under  orders  to  sail 
forthwith  for  those  seas,  and  at  the  time  our  tale 
commences,  his  wife  was  alone  at  the  cottage, 
waiting  his  arrival  from  the  city,  to  which  the 
business  of  preparation  had  called  him  in  the  early 
part  of  the  day.  The  evening  was  a  bland  one 
in  midsummer.  She  sat  at  the  window,  earnestly 
gazing  out  in  exp^tation  of  his  approach.  The 
l£ist  light  of  sunset  shot  through  the  flowers  and 
wild  vines,  and  sent  a  mellow  lustre  into  the  room. 
It  was  all  fragrance  and  tAvilight.  Thoughts  were 
rising  upon  her  mind,  that  had  never  visited  it 
before,  because,  till  now,  the  occasion  had  never 
come  that  should  suggest  them.  She  had  never 
reflected  upon  the  possibility  of  these  things,  and 
she  now  began  to  question  herself,  and  to  grow 
sad  and  uneasy.  But  her  reverie  was  broken  by 
the  arrival  of  Kirkwood,  attended  by  a  female 
companion.  She  recognised  her  with  evident 
satisfaction,  and  hastened  to  welcome  them  at 
the  door. 

'  Well,  Helen,'  said  Kirkwood,  '  you  see  I  have 
prevailed,  and  brought  Julia,  who  has  promised 
to  remain  wiih  you  during  my  truant  months ;  so 


94  THE  seaman's  widow. 

you  must  contrive  to  make  yourselves  happy 
while  I  am  gone  on  this  ill-timed  cruise.  But  I 
hope,'  continued  he,  forcing  an  air  of  gaiety, '  that 
I  shall  soon  be  back  again  to  make  you  both  stare 
at  my  delightful  stories  about  the  turbans.' 

There  was  no  hilarity  to  answer  that  in  which 
these  words  were  uttered,  and  the  conversation 
turned  to  other  topics.  It  was  a  relief,  indeed, 
to  tliat  young  wife  to  find  so  tried  a  friend  at  her 
side  at  this  crisis.  They  had  been  as  sisters  from 
their  childhood ; — could  any  thing  separate  them 
at  such  a  time ! 

The  evening,  however,  passed  heavily.  It  grew 
late.  The  frigate  that  lay  on  the  calm  waters  in 
full  view  of  the  dwelling,  and  on  which  they  had 
ail  been  unconsciously  gazing,  was  now  lost  in 
gloom.  The  air  grew  chill.  Kirkwood  drew 
down  the  Mdndow,  and  the  party  retired  with  a 
melancholy  good  night. 

The  next  morning  there  was  frequent  passing 
to  and  from  the  shore ;  and  before  noon  his  wife 
and  friend  were  there  to  wish  Kirkwood  farewell 
and  a  good  wind.  Helen  did  not  sink  under  this, 
though  it  was  a  trial  sore  and  cutting  to  her  un- 
tried heart.  The  ship  unfurled  her  canvass,  the 
guns  roared  over  the  ¥»'aters,  and  the  signal  was 


THE  seaman's  widow.  95 

given  for  weighing  anchor.  KirkAvood,  in  a  tone 
of  hilarity,  bade  them  have  no  fear  for  him. 

'God  bless  yon,  Helen !  God  bless  and  preserve 
you,  my  dear  girl !  Don't  look  pale  while  I  am 
gone.  Bear  np,  bear  up — yon  shall  hear  from  me 
as  oft^n  as  possible,  and  every  thing  shall  go  well.' 

She  did  bear  up.  Woman  is  capable  of  won- 
derfiil  fortitude  at  times,  and  here  was  another 
example  of  it. 

'  I  will  believe,'  said  she,  placidly,  and  in  an 
mider  tone,  '  I  will  believe  all  you  tell  me — that 
you  will  return  soon  in  safety  and  with  gratitude. 
And  now  go,'  continued  she,  as  if  fearing  for  the 
mastery  of  her  feehngs,  '  don't  you  see  that  your 
ship  is  impatient  to  be  gone,  and  the  signal  has 
already  called  you  ?' 

Kirkwood  bent  over  her,  and  whispered  a  few 
words,  then  sprung  into  the  boat  in  waiting,  and 
soon  stood  upon  the  deck  of  his  vessel. 

The  two  friends,  without  interchanging  a  single 
word,  hurried  up  the  la"\\ai  and  into  the  house, 
before  they  ventured  a  glance  at  the  gallant  frigate. 
They  then  seated  themselves  in  silence  at  the 
windows,  to  watch  her  movements  as  she  put  to 
sea.  Long  did  they  remain  there  looking  at  that 
beautiful  object.     By  degrees,  sail  after  sail  was 


96  THE  seaman's  widow. 

dropped,  and  filled  away  before  the  freshening 
wind,  till  she  seemed  to  float  over  the  element 
under  a  cloud  of  canvass.  At  first,  every  spar  was 
distinctly  visible  as  the  sails  were  stretched  upon 
them,  and  the  men  could  be  seen  darting  among 
the  rigging,  in  the  busy  preparation  for  the  voyage. 
Gradually  the  ship  sunk  into  a  white,  towering 
mass,  that  appeared  to  rest  against  the  sky,  con- 
tinuing to  diminish,  until  it  faded  into  a  speck  of 
mist  on  the  watery  horizon. 

It  was  then  that  Helen  turned  to  her  companion, 
and  felt  how  many  of  her  hopes  were  extinguished 
when  that  white  sail  died  in  the  distance.  She 
arose  up,  with  tears  trembling  in  her  eyes,  and 
walked  the  room  with  her  arms  folded  upon  her 
bosom. 

"  Certainly,"  said  she,  "  I  have  seen  many  part- 
ings, Julia,  and  heard  of  them  too,  under  circum- 
stances of  no  small  anxiety,  and  people  seemed 
to  take  them  as  a  matter  of  course ;  but  I  find  I 
have  never  thought  of  these  things,  or  else  I  am 
different  from  every  body  else." 

Julia  saw,  that,  in  some  respects,  she  was  so 
indeed ;  and  she  began  to  banter  her  for  her  me- 
lancholy. 

The  next  day  came  in  with  storm  and  rain ; 


THE  seaman's  widow.  97 

bat  there  was  every  reason  to  believe  that  the 
ship  had  got  well  to  sea,  as  the  wind  had  blown 
freshly  and  prosperously  during  the  night.  Still 
it  was  a  sad  day  to  begin  her  widowhood  with, 
and  Helen  was  disposed  to  presage  something 
from  it.  Tliis  was  not  superstition  in  her ;  it  was 
,  merely  the  indulgence  of  a  feeling  that  holds  all 
of  us  more  or  less  v/ithin  its  influence.  Yet  such 
was  but  the  first  of  many  days  of  disquiet  that 
she  was  doomed  to  pass. 

As  might  be  expected,  the  retreat  was  not  un- 
visited  at  this  crisis.  It  was  the  resort  of  many 
kind  and  solicitous  friends,  who  came  and  went 
with  smiles  of  cheerfulness  and  words  of  conso- 
lation ;  while  in  Julia,  her  companion,  she  found 
that  well-ordered  sympathy  that  does  more  than 
any  thing,  to  reconcile  us  to  hard  occasions.  She 
did  not  yield  a  ready  echo  to  every  fear  that  she 
breathed,  but  contrived  to  elude  all  mention  of 
the  painful  part  of  her  anticipations,  while  she 
ah^-ays  treated  them  with  tender,  but  silent  atten- 
tion. Still  Julia  was  sensitive  to  a  fault ;  but  she 
nad  forethought  as  well  as  tears  for  her  friends, 
and,  over  all,  an  intelligence  that  beguiled  time 
of  half  its  weariness. 

But  Helen  Kirkwood's  strength  was  miscalcu- 

n 


98  THE  seaman's  widow. 

lated ,  She  knew  little  about  it  herself ;  and  where 
she  came  to  feel  how  it  was  going  from  her,  she 
wondered  how  she  had  dared  to  put  it  to  such 
trial*  Yet  she  felt  that  this  was  not  so  great  a 
struggle  to  bear  with,  after  all.  Thousands  of 
fine  spirits  had  undergone  such  before,  and  their 
eyes  had  not  lost  lustre,  nor  their  cheeks  coIouTj 
nor  their  frames  life  and  proportion.  But  we 
have  said  that  she  was  young,  and  unprepared, 
and  singularly  confiding..  Neither  her  own  reso- 
lution, therefore,  nor  the  tone  of  comfort  and  hope 
assumed  by  her  friends,  could  rid  her  of  that  pro- 
phetic sense  of  evil  that  sat  upon  her  spirit  like 
an  incubus,  pressing  it  deeply  and  painfully  home 
to  its  citadel.  She  went  out  and  walked  among 
the  flowers  and  woods,  and  talked  with  her  friend 
as  she  had  been  accustomed  to  in  her  rambles 
with  Kirkwood,  and,  with  her,  planned  out  num- 
berless little  things  to  please  and  surprise  hrm. 
But  all  this  was  constrained,  it  was  unnatural — a 
vain  effort  to  escape  from  the  chilling,  deadening 
influence  of  some  of  those  terrible  convictions, 
that,  in  spite  of  us,  will  sometimes  people  the 
imagination, 

Autuum  passed  by,  and  winter  was  verging  on, 
when  the  first  letters  arrived.    One  was  dated  at 


THE  seaman's  widow.  09 

sea,  and  written  in  strains  of  alternate  hope  and 
anxiety  and  happiness.  The  prospect  of  a  speedy- 
voyage  appeared  to  be  quite  certain,  and  a  deter- 
mination to  do  something  brilliant  and  decisive 
was  earnestly  expressed.  Something  desperate 
tvas  to  be  done,  and  the  service  would  be  peril- 
ous. "  But  then,"  said  he,  "  exposure  is  a  part  of 
our  profession,  Helen,  and  peril  is  the  track  we 
are  always  doomed  to  move  in.^  H€rre,tJonjured 
flp  anew,  was  the  very  fear  that  had  been,  since 
fiis  departure,  pursuing  her  like  a  phantom.  Once 
she  would  have  looked  on  the  thought  of  security 
as  inglorious.  Now,  fame  was  a  word  of  sad 
import  to  her ;  and  safety  was  something  better 
than  honour — it  was  her  happiness,  her  salvation. 
The  winter  went  heavily  by,  and  found  our 
friends  at  their  still  fireside  in  almost  unbroken 
retirement.  Tliough  often  urged  to  revisit  her 
former  circles,  Helen  had  no  heart  to  do  it.  Her 
friends  knew  her  too  well  to  press  the  matter. 
With  Julia  aloiie,thCTefore,she  passed  the  season 
of  gloom,  rerievmg  it,  as  well  as  could  be  hoped, 
with  such  scenery  to  fill  their  eyes,  and  such  re- 
collections to  occupy  their  hearts.  StiU  Kirkwood'a 
letters  continued  to  come  fast  and  full,  brmging 
gladness   and    consolation,  momentary  though 


100  THE  seaman's  widow. 

tliey  might  be,  into  that  httle  dwelling.  But  ni 
no  one  was  a  hope  held  out  of  return.  Every- 
thing was  very  uncertain.  The  service  was  active. 
Wliat  the  end  would  be,  and  when,  was  a  pro- 
blem ;  and  to  talk  of  return  as  a  thing  certain, 
was  not  to  be  permitted,  and,  besides,  would 
awaken  hopes,  that  might  not  be  realized,  till  the 
expectant  was  disheartened.  WTiat  but  a  deadly 
one,  could  be  the  effect  of  such  conclusions  upon 
one  so  constituted  1  The  Avinter  fled  without  hope; 
and  when  Helen  first  opened  her  doors  and  win- 
dows on  the  new-budding  vines  that  clung  about 
them,  it  was  with  as  little  prospect  of  joy  to  come, 
as  when  their  leaves  fell  fluttering  and  circling 
round  her  in  the  dim  sunlight  of  autumn. 

The  effect  of  all  these  things  could  be  no  longer 
concealed.  Sickness  had  followed ;  and  ere  the 
winter  was  over,  it  was  evident  that  disappoint- 
ment, leagued  with  disease,  had  commenced  its 
work  of  decay  and  desolation.  It  was  decay, 
however,  unaccompanied  by  complaint  of  any 
sort.  Her  smile,  indeed,  grew  more  languid,  and 
a  beautiful  complacency  came  on  as  her  presen- 
timents grew  more  fixed  and  decided. 

A  long  interval  had  now  elapsed  since  the  last 
letter.     The  season  had  again  mellowed  into  sum- 


THE  SEAKAN's.VIDOV-  30j 

mer,  and  fruits  and  flowers  wer.e  onc-e .more  hang- 
ing about  the  retreal  ?iiut  Helen. no-longer  mcvea 
among  them  as  she  had  been  wont  to.  A  pale 
cheek,  a  quick-beating  heart,  too  well  whispered 
the  story  of  her  suffering.  The  subtle,  strange 
fever  of  the  spirit  was  upon  her,  and  she  felt  that 
she  was  to  be  a  martyr.  At  length  all  her  ap- 
prehensions seemed  about  to  be  realized.  There 
had  been  vague  rumours  of  the  loss  of  a  govern- 
ment ship  in  the  Mediterranean,  by  storai  or  battle. 
Heretofore  it  had  been  nothing  but  rumour,  and 
as  such  had  circulated  but  little  in  the  papers.  It 
was  now  ascertained  that  the  report  was  true,  and 
the  public  prints  were  filled  with  accounts  of  a 
hard  fought  battle  between  the  ship  commanded 
by  Kirkwood  and  an  Algerine  frigate.  Still  there 
was  nothing  official.  The  journals  only  said,  in 
addition,  that  the  contest  was  gallantly  maintained, 
and  that  the  American  commander  was  mortally 
wounded. 

When  Helen  read  this  intelligence,  at  length 
assuming  some  credible  shape,  there  was  no  vio- 
lent burst  of  grief,  no  wailing  or  despair ;  but  the 
little  hope  that  had  hitherto  sustained  her,  seemed 
suddenly  withdrawn,  and  she  settled  downward 
to  the  earth  as  though  an  overpowering  and  over- 

9* 


102  T^ftLie  j^eaman^s  widow. 

shaf/awmg  presence  -was  tlp(?n  her.  So  com- 
pletely had'the  siibd^img  eonviction  of  a  terrible 
issue  come  over  her,  that,  had  the  death  of  Kirk- 
wood  at  that  moment  been  announced  to  her,  it 
would  have  been  any  thing  but  stunning  intelli- 
gence. She  looked  as  though  the  worst  might 
come  now,  and  she  would  receive  it  with  tran- 
quillity. Still  there  was  no  complaint ;  but  sighs 
broke  from  her,  such  as  come  only  from  an  ex- 
piring spirit.  It  was  now  the  time  of  conflicting 
emotions;  and  the  troubled  tides  were  rushing 
and  mingling  about  her  heart,  as  some  distant 
hope  would  shoot  over  the  stirring  elements,  and 
startle  them  into  exultation.  Again  the  waters 
would  subside,  and  a  profound  calm  settle  upon 
the  deep. 

She  had  now  become  so  feeble  that  even  her 
companion's  encouraging  hilarity  could  no  longer 
keep  her  up. 

"  I  am  iller  than  ever,  Julia,"  said  she ;  "  I  will 
go  into  my  bedroom ;  it  seems  the  fittest  place  for 
me ;  I  cannot  hold  up  much  longer ;  and  I  am 
only  a  trouble  to  you,  to  be  wandering  about  so." 

There  is  something  inexpressibly  touching  in 
this  voluntary  relinquishment  of  the  common 
holds  upon  life  and  its  pleasures— of  all  that  sense 


THE  seaman's  widow.  103 

of  enjoyment  that  comes  from  moving  among  the 
beauties  of  the  world  and  in  its  free  air,  for  the 
sameness  and  silence  of  a  sick-room ;  for  a  sick- 
chamber  is  but  the  vestibule  of  the  tombj  and  when 
the  beautiful  and  young  go  into  it,  wiih  a  pre- 
paredness of  spirit,  and  that  quiet  tone  of  feeling 
tli|^  is  as  far  removed  from  complaint  as  it  is  from 
display,  there  is  something  in  the  spectacle  irre- 
sistibly chastening  and  pathetic. 

Here,  then,  in  a  small  room  that  opened  upon 
the  blue  sea,  she  set  herself  to  wait  the  issue.  A 
holiness  of  purpose  seemed  now  to  have  settled 
upon  her,  and  a  concentration  of  her  thoughts 
seemed  to  have  taken  place,  that  served  pecu- 
liarly to  harmonize  with  her  sickness.  On  a 
small  table  at  her  bedside,  lay  her  Bible,  and 
under  it  the  paper  that  contained  the  last  distress- 
ing account  of  Kirk  wood.  This  she  kept  by  her 
continually ;  and  often  was  she  to  be  seen  holding 
it  for  hours  together,  with  her  eyes  fixed  vacantly 
upon  that  part  which  bore  the  intelligence,  as 
though  she  were  trying  to  derive  something  new 
from  what  she  had  read  again  and  again.  Thus 
was  she  cherishing,  with  a  deep,  calm  fervour,  the 
very  lines  that  had  bowed  her  down,  merely  be- 
cause they  were  the  last  that  had  come,  relating 


104  T«E  seaman's  widow. 

to  her  unfortunate  husband,  and  because  they 
still  left  to  her  the  doubtful  joy  of  one  dim  solitary 
liope. 

Yet  Helen  was  not  alone.  She  was  not  forgot- 
ten. Over  her  sad  lot,  there  were  many  to  weep, 
who  had  known  her  in  the  days  of  bloom,  when 
joy  was  ever  present,  the  buoyant  handmaideaof 
her  bright  hours.  Her  friends  were  often  with 
her ;  but  it  was  no  longer  with  the  smile  of  social 
rebuke  at  imaginary  fears,  or  with  the  language  of 
consolation.  They  looked  on  her  as  one  M'hom 
they  could  not  trifle  with  in  that  way,  as  though 
the  conviction  of  her  terrible  loss,  and  of  her  com- 
ing destiny,  M'as  too  deeply  seated  to  be  charmed 
away  by  kind  words  or  kind  looks.  They  re- 
garded her  as  an  offering  for  the  grave,  and  felt  a 
hallowed  solemnity  steal  over  them,  as  they  saw 
her  there,  waiting,  as  it  might  be,  for  her  sepul- 
ture. The  house  was  as  tranquil  as  though  it  W£is 
deserted ;  no  glad  voices  were  heard  there ;  no 
human  sound,  but  occasionally,  when  Julia  sung 
some  low  air,  as  she  sat,  charged  with  grief,  over 
her  harpsichord.  Friends  came  and  went  as 
noiseless  as  the  birds  about  the  dwelling.  All  ex- 
changed a  few  words  upon  the  condition  of  the 
young  wife,  as  they  met  and  parted,  but  always 


THE  seaman's  widow.  105 

in  whispers— as  though  her  subtle  spirit  was  all 
about  them,  and  could  catch  every  breath  they 
uttered. 

As  if  her  sense  of  what  is  beautiful  in  nature 
was  revived  to  an  intense  degree,  she  would  re- 
quest to  have  fresh-blown  flowers,  especially  roses 
of  deep  fragrance,  culled  and  ranged  along  upon 
the  table  before  her,  in  little  vases.  Julia  lent  all 
her  care,  as  well  as  taste,  in  performing  this  duty, 
for  it  seemed  to  connect  itself  beautifully,  but 
mysteriously,  with  the  state  of  her  dying  friend. 
On  this  lovely  collection,  that  was  laid  every 
morning,  like  an  offering  of  odour  and  dew  before 
her,  forming  in  its  bloom  an  emblem  of  her  own 
purity,  at  once,  and  fragility— on  these  clustering 
flowers  she  would  gaze  with  an  intensity  that 
seemed  almost  painful.  Thus  she  would  sit  for 
a  long  time,  as  though  waiting  to  see  them  droop, 
the  summer  airs  breathing  around  her,  and  scat- 
tering in  at  the  door  the  blossoms  from  the  wild 
vines,  Avhile  Julia,  at  her  side,  read  in  a  quiet  tone 
some  favourite  volume,  or  held  a  low-voiced  con- 
versation, leaving  her,  with  an  instinctive  kind 
of  respect,  to  such  subjects  as  her  fancy  might 
suggest. 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  with  what  calmness 


106  THE  seaman's  widow. 

and  devotion  that  yonng  creature  sat  there  wait- 
.ng  the  issue  of  her  fatal  disease.  It  was  a  pic- 
ture for  the  rigid  rehgionist,  or  the  gay  and  thank- 
less devotee  of  the  world  and  its  follies.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  seen  there,  in  the  sublime  sup- 
port that  her  spirit  seemed  to  enjoy,  which  was 
to  be  referred  to  any  miraculous  influence  of  a 
mysterious  faith.  It  was  merely  the  submission 
of  a  pure  heart,  conscious,  indeed,  of  its  demerits 
at  its  best  estate,  but  still  too  pure  to  believe  that 
God  would  deride  its  holiest  feelings,  or  withdraw 
his  mercy  as  the  shadow  of  death  came  on.  It 
was  the  calmness  of  a  meek  spirit^  passing  in  the 
strength  of  its  duty,  of  its  affection,  of  its  trial ;  and 
there  is  a  world  of  consolation  and  of  instruction 
to  be  drawn  from  the  scene. 

In  this  manner  another  nK)nlh  passed  away. 
it  was  midsummer  once  more,  and  almost  a  year 
had  fled  since  Kirkwood  had  departed.  It  was 
near  a  glowing  noon  in  July,  and  Helen,  as  usual 
was  seated  in  her  deep  chair,  placid  and  pale  as 
marble.  A  soft  air  was  breathing  fi-om  the  sea, 
and,  as  it  came  in  at  the  windows,  scattered  the 
rose  leaves  from  the  vases,  till  they  fell  in  showers 
upon  her  head  and  lap.  Unconscious  of  every 
thing  else,  however,  she  was  busy  over  her  soli- 


THE  seaman's  widow.  107 

tary  paper,  reading — was  it  for  the  last  time  ? — 
that  sad  narrative,  on  which,  as  if  by  some  fatahty, 
she  continued  doatingly  to  linger.  A  few  tears 
might  be  seen  passing  off,  but  there  was  no  heav- 
ing of  the  bosom,  no  sob,  no  sigh.  The  tears 
seemed  to  be  the  last  tears  of  an  exhausted  heart. 
Near  her,  and  with  her  back  turned  upon  her,  sat 
Julia,  just  breathing  a  few  sad  words  of  melody 
in  accompaniment  to  her  instrument.  As  she 
played,  she  thought  another  voice  stole  in  and 
mingled  with  her  own.  Listening  attentively,  she 
heard  with  distinctness  a  few  notes  that  could  not 
be  mistaken,  and  she  was  convinced  that  Helen 
joined  with  her.  This  was  uncommon,  and  she 
played  on  as  though  she  had  not  heard  it ;  but  the 
voice  ceased  entirely.  She  rose  on  being  address- 
ed by  Helen,  and  seated  herself  at  her  side.  She 
observed  that  she  was  just  then  passing  her  eye 
from  the  window  to  the  portrait  of  Kirkwood, 
that  hung  near  the  bed. 

"  How  strongly,  Julia,  this  day  reminds  me  of 
that  when  James  parted  from  us !  It  is  just  the 
time  of  year,  and  the  sea  looks  the  same,  and  then 
the  shore  there,  and  the  ship— every  thing,  every 
thing,  Julia,  remains  the  same  but  myself—and  I 
am  altered  indeed !" 


108  THE  seaman's  widow. 

She  gazed  on  her  white,  withered  hands,  while 
Juha,  her  attention  thus  directed,  looked  out  upon 
the  prospect.  The  scene  was  indeed  calculated 
to  recall  the  time  that  had  been  alluded  to — boats 
shooting  from  the  shore ;  the  air  quivering  over 
the  heated  sand  ;  the  green  trees  waving  in  the 
vicinity;  and  a  stout  ship  standing  in  with  her  high 
sails  set,  and  her  tapering  masts  apparently  tracing 
the  clouds  in  her  approach. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  Julia,"  she  continued, 
"  that  this  life  of  corroding  suspense — if,  indeed, 
I  can  call  it  suspense — is  about  closing  with  me. 
I  am  convinced  that  even  James's  return  would 
not  revive  me  now,  and  I  can  hardly  wish  to 
live,  while  there  would  be  nothing  to  welcome 
him  but  this  miserable  wreck,  nothing  for  him  to 
live  for  but  such  a  shadow  as  I  am." 

"  But,  my  dear  Helen,"  returned  Julia,  "  you 
know  we  can't  measure  other's  feelings  by  our 
own  m  such  cases;  especially  the  feelings  of 
those  who  love  us.  Kirkwood  would  think  you 
were  doing  him  injustice  by  such  an  idea." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  she,  faintly  ;  and 
again  her  eyes  fell  on  her  shrunken  and  transpa- 
rent hands.  There  was  silence  for  some  time. 
At  length  she  proceeded  : 


THE  seaman's  widow.  109 

"  The  world  has  altered  strangely  to  me,  very 
strangely,  Julia.  I  seem  to  forget  every  thing, 
every  thing"— she  hesitated  a  moment—"  all  but 
James,  and  he  now  appears  before  me  with  a 
strange  distinctness,  just  as  he  was  on  the  eve  of 
our  marriage.  But  things  are  fading  from  me 
fast,  which  I  v/ould  remember.  They  have  been 
a  solace  to  me  heretofore.  I  would  not  forget 
them  now ;  it  seems  to  be  the  last  time  I  shall 
think  of  them.  Speak,  Julia!  speak  of  those  times 
as  they  were,  and  as  we  used  to  speak  of  them ; 
this  void  is  worse  than  all." 

Juha  saw  at  once  the  sad  condition  to  which 
decay  had  brought  her  friend ;  and  as  she  would 
nave  done  by  a  child,  she  drew  her  to  her  bosom, 
and  talked  over  many  events  that  she  knew  would 
flow  pleasingly  into  her  awakened  recollection. 
She  listened  as  in  a  sweet  dream;  and  a  hall 
formed  smile  sometimes  appeared  flittiiig  over  her 
colourless  face,  as  the  endeared  memories  came 
back  upon  her. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged,  a  domestic  ap- 
peared at  the  door,  and  beckoned  to  Juha.  The 
intimation  was  not  seen  by  Helen,  and  havmg 
gently  extricated  herself,  she  advanced  as  if  to 
give  some  of  the  usual  household  directions,  and 

10 


110  THE  seaman's  widow. 

hastily  took  a  letter  from  the  hands  of  the  ser- 
vant. Helen,  meanwhile,  had  resumed  her  pa- 
per, but,  on  Julia's  turning,  suddenly  looked  up, 
and  discovered  the  letter  in  her  hands.  It  was 
in  vain  to  attempt  concealment.  There  was  but 
one  course  to  pursue.  Lighting  into  a  smile, 
"  See,  Helen !  here  is  something  at  last,  this  mo- 
ment handed  me.  It  comes  suddenly,  indeed. 
Do  you  feel  prepared  for  it  ?  Will  you  open  it, 
or  shall  I  ?" 

Julia  hardly  knew  what  she  was  saying.  Her 
thoughts  were  in  tumult.  She  was  answered 
simply  by  a  motion.  Tlie  handwriting  of  the  en- 
velope M'as  unknown  to  her,  and  the  seal  was 
black.  But  the  letter  was  already  open,  and  the 
well  known  characters  were  before  her.  With- 
out sajang  a  word,  she  hurried  it  into  the  hands 
of  Helen.  Tlie  \\Titing  was  his  own,  and  the 
charm  oC  death  was  dissolved.  Kirkwood  was 
alive,  was  well,  was  returning  to  her ;  and  life 
flowed  back  once  more  into  its  long  deserted 
channels. 

Crushing  the  letter  between  her  hands,  she  rose 
up  with  wonderful  vigour,  and  lifted  her  arms  to 
heaven. 

"  Thank  God,  thank  God,  for  this  !  Now  I  am 


THE  seaman's  widow.  Ill 

ready  to  die  5"  and  she  sunk  again  into  her  chair 
and  covered  her  face. 

"  Read  it,  Jiiha,  for  I  cannot— I  have  no  sight— 
and — I  am  very  weak — Great  God  1"  murmured 
she  to  herself,  "  Vvhat  a  revulsion !" 

With  fear  and  trembling  Julia  read  as  follows 
The  letter  was  dated  at  Gibraltar. 


"You  must  not  be  alarmed,  Helen,  to  find  me 
addressing  you  from  a  sick  bed.  We  have  had 
a  desperate  battle.  I  was  wounded,  mortally,  it 
was  supposed,  and  brought  hither.  And  here  I 
have  been,  lingering,  lingering,  for  long  weeks, 
and  even  months ;  suffering  much  which  it  would 
avail  little  to  talk  of  novr,  but  which  your  pre- 
sence, your  presence,  Helen !  how  it  would  have 
alleviated !  I  am  still  very  weak,  and  suffer  a 
great  deal  now,  while  I  am  writing  you.  You 
would  hardly  know  me,  I  am  so  altered.  What  a 
contrast  I  must  present  to  you  and  Julia ! — happy, 
no  doubt,  and  healthy ;  full  of  hfe  and  expecta- 
tion. But  at  present  I  must  not  dwell  on  this 
subject.  I  must  husband  my  little  strength,  and 
tell  you,  as  well  as  I  can,  something  about  my 
misfortunes  and  condition. 

"  The  story  of  a  bloody  battle,  my  beloved 


112  THE  seaman's  widow. 

wife,  it  would  be  cruel  to  torture  you  with.  The 
papers,  besides,  have  no  doubt  let  you  into  all  the 
particulars.  It  was  in  the  heat  of  the  fight,  as  I 
was  attempting  to  replace  the  fallen  colours,  that  I 
received  a  severe  wound,  that  prostrated  me  in  an 
instant.  Hoav  long  I  laid  insensible  I  know  not ; 
but  my  first  recollection  found  me  at  this  place, 
under  good  care,  but  deeply,  dreadfully  wounded. 
The  history  of  my  suffering,  I  say,  I  will  not  re- 
peat ;  it  is  useless,  and  it  would  wring  your  heart 
to  read  it  all.  Such  has  it  been,  that,  till  this  mo- 
ment, I  have  not  been  able  to  write  a  word.  I 
would  rather  turn  from  it  to  you,  Helen,  for  I  find 
a  comfort  in  holding  this  sort  of  communion  with 
you.  Wlien,  when  will  the  time  come,  that  I  shall 

exchange  it  for  yourself? 

*    *    * 

"  My  dreams  are  strange  and  fevered.  I  thought, 
last  night,  you  had  come  to  me,  and  stood  over 
my  pillow.  But  then,  how  you  had  altered !  You 
seemed  to  be  a  statue ;  and  when  your  lips  touch^ 
ed  mine,  they  felt  as  cold  as  marble,  and  your 
form  looked  wild  and  spectral.  What  does  this 
mean  ?  Is  my  fancy  still  so  diseased  ?  or  is  it 
one  of  those  mysterious  intimations  of  our  sleep, 
that  would  seem  to  come  just  at  the  moment 


THE  seaman's  widow.  113 

when  we  least  can  bear  them  ?  O  Helen !  as  I 
write,  and  my  feelings  awake  to  old  memories 
and  joys  that  are  now  denied  me,  I  feel  indeed 
how  miserable  I  am.  I  have  been,  too,  a  great 
while  on  this  bed  of  pain  and  languishing.  Yet 
my  strength  is  that  of  a  child,  and  there  are  strange 
convictions  coming  over  me,  at  times,  that  I  can- 
not bear  to  indulge,  yet  cannot  get  rid  of.  I  try 
■to  be  patient — God  forgive  me  for  my  complain- 
ing— ^but  the  thought  that  there  is  an  ocean  be- 
tween us  is  intolerable.  How  much  I  want  you 
now !  And  how  doubly  blessed  now  appears  our 
little  retreat,  and  the  repose  there,  and  all,  all, 
every  thing  about  it !  But  I  am  a  mere  infant  at 
exertion.  I  am  warned  not  to  put  forth  too  much. 
I  will  wait.  More  as  soon  as  I  am  permitted. 
Good  night,  good  night ! 

^  3^^  'p 

"  My  Avound  pains  me  but  little  to-day ;  yet  I 
can  hardly  write,  and  the  surgeon  forbids  exer- 
tion. Exertion !  why,  what  does  he  think  we  are 
made  of?  What  can  keep  the  mind  in  stagna- 
tion ?  Yet  think  of  a  spirit  fettered  do\\Ti,  and 
toiling  and  wearing  av/ay  the  very  principle  of 
life.  Helen,  I  feel  that  I  am  getting  low ;  and 
that  this  confmement,  with  this  cold,  low  tone  o' 

10* 


114  THE  seaman's  widow, 

encouragement,  that  is  worse  than  the  extinction 
of  all  hope,  are  hurrying  me  downward  very 
fast.  I  pray  you,  prepare  yourself  for  the  worst 
God  knows,  it  may  come,  for  my  system  is  in  a 
terrible  struggle  with  nature,  and  the  spirit  of 
life  is  too  weak  to  hold  out  long  in  this  way. 

"But  I  seem  to  think  and  talk  wholly  of  my- 
self. And  now  how  fares  it  with  you,  Helen  ? 
How  is  our  home?  and  our  friends,  how  are 
they  ?  and  your  letters,  where  are  they  ?  I  have 
had  no  word  for  months  from  you — and  I  here, 
upon  this  weary  bed,  heaving  and  panting  !  Oh  ! 
this  wide  sea !  this  wide  sea  !  But  I  must  break 
off  again  ;  my  pen  drops  ;  I  am  exhausted.  Once 
more,  Helen,  as  you  love  me,  let  me  conjure  you 

to  be  calm.     There  is  a  high  duty  upon  us. 

*     *     * 

"  Yesterday  the  physician  said  something  about 
hope,  but  he  shook  his  head  as  he  said  it,  and  I 
feel  something  here  that  he  cannot  fathom.  Am 
I  to  feel  it  much  longer  ?  Then  God  bless  you, 
God  bless  you  and  preserve  you,  for  1  can  do  it  no 
longer !  I  think  I  know  my  situation— but  I  am 
as  weak  as  death — I  cannot  trace  my  words.  O 
home !  home !  our  home !  and  our  young  love ! 
how  soon  it  is  cut  off!   But  tell  them  our  flag  was 


THE  seaman's  widow.  115 

not  dishonoured — and— remember,    Helen — ^but 
my  wound  bleeds  afresh." 


Julia  stopped.  She  thought  it  was  enough. 
There  were  a  few  words  more,  but  she  hardly- 
dared  to  read  them.  During  this  time  she  had 
continued  standing  by  the  side  of  her  afflicted 
friend ;  and,  as  she  closed,  she  glanced  her  eye 
over  the  top  of  the  letter  to  mark  its  effect  upon 
lier.  She  sat  perfectly  collected  and  motionless ; 
but  an  indescribable  expression  of  deep  settled 
sorrow  had  passed  into  her  face,  and  a  look  of 
utter  abandonment  was  there,  mingled  with  a  love- 
liness so  subdued  and  so  tender,  that  it  melted  the 
heart  to  see  it.  The  paper  had  fallen,  and  lay 
upon  the  floor,  at  her  side.  A  shade  of  singular 
resignation  was  thrown  over  her  countenance  by 
the  simple  arrangement  about  her  head ;  a  white 
robe  enveloped  her  shrinking  figure,  and  a  beau- 
tiful mantle,  over  that,  was  dra^^^l  in  folds  about 
her.  Her  hands  lay  meekly  crossed  in  her  lap, 
and  her  feet  sat  lifelessly  forward  upon  the  floor, 
as  though  they  had  long  ago  forgotten  their  office 
of  support.  Her  lips  moved  not  during  the  re- 
cital ;  her  eye  gleamed  not  with  a  single  tear,  but 
fixed  itself  in  steadfast  g?.ze  upon  the  air,  as  though 


'^ 


116  THE  seaman's  -widow. 

her  soul  had  already  taken  wing  for  the  land  of 
spirits. 

As  Julia  finished,  she  seemed  to  be  roused  from 
her  reverie. 

•"  Is  it  all,  Julia  ?"  said  she,  slowly,  and  in  a 
tone  scarcely  audible,  as  she  looked  up—"  is  it 
all  1  read  it  all— all— I  am  prepared  now  for  every 
thincr.  Did  he  not  tell  me  to  be  calm  ? — read — 
read" — and,  at  once,  she  sobbed  as  if  overpowered 
and  suffocated. 

Julia  sat  by  her,  and  read  the  postscript.  It  was 
from  a  friend  of  Kirkwood,  who  thus  performed 
his  dying  request,  in  relating  the  circumstances  of 
his  death,  and  forwarding  the  letter.  He  had  not 
disgraced  his  flag,  and  he  died  as  became  a  man 
and  a  christian. 

As  she  closed,  Helen  bowed,  as  with  some  terri- 
ble oppression,  upon  the  bosom  of  her  friend.  As 
she  once  more  faintly  raised  her  head,  her  eye  fell 
on  the  portrait  of  him  she  had  so  fervently  loved. 
It  fixed  there  a  moment,  and,  ere  Julia  was  aware, 
she  fell  back  lifeless  upon  her  arm.  Her  heart 
was  broken. 


CANVASSING . 

BV  CHARLES   WEST   THOMSON. 

"  Sir,  your  vote — will  you  allow,  Sir — 
Glad  to  find  you  at  your  ease" — 

''You'll  excuse  me— for  I  vow,  Sir, 
I  shall  vote  for  whom  I  please." 

"But,  good  friend" "It  is  in  vain,  Sir- 

Fm  a  freeman,  Sir,  to-day  "— 
"  Just  permit  me  to  explain,  Sir  " — 

"'Tis  scarce  worth  your  longer  stay." 

"Well,  Sir,  let  me  leave  this  letter— 

And  farewell,  Sir" "Sir,  good  bye- 
Glad  he's  gone,  that  old  abetter 
Of  the  aristocracy. 

"  I  am  not  so  sad  a  sinner 

To  prop  up  so  rank  a  stem — 
Mary,  now  let's  have  some  dinner, 

We  are  just  as  good  as  them." 


SATURDAY    AFTERNOON.  IH 

SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

BY   N.    P.   WILLIS. 


I  LOVE  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this. 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 
And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old, 

And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray. 
For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart, 

And  makes  his  pulses  fly, 
To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice. 

And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

I  have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore  years, 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old  ; 
That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper.  Death, 

And  my  years  are  well  nigh  told. 
It  is  very  true — it  is  very  true — 

I'm  old,  and  I  '  'bide  my  time' — 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  Uke  this, 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on  !  play  on !  I  am  with  you  there. 
In  the  midst  of  yoiu-  merry  ring ; 

1  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 
And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 


il8  THE  BLIND  BOY. 

I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 
And  I  whoop  the  snwthered  call, 

And  my  feet  sUp  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 
And  I  care  not  for  the  falL 

I  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come, 

And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go, 
For  the  world,  at  best,  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low ; 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 

In  treading  its  gloomy  way ; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness. 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 


THE  BLIND  BOY. 


Seven  children  gathered  around  the  board  oi 
William  Halleck  ;  and  though  poverty  lay  like  a 
dark  mist  on  his  prospects,  and  sometimes  pressed 
heavily  on  his  heart,  yet  the  hardy  and  pious  far- 
mer toiled  patiently  along  the  thorny  path  he 
found  marked  out  for  him.  Death  had  never 
entered  his  doors ;  but  sickness  had  come  often, 
with  fatigue,  expense,  anxiety,  and  sorrow  in  her 
train     and  beneath  his  roof  dwelt  one  being,  at 


THE    BLIND    BOY.  119 

once  a  living  joy  and  a  living  sorrow.  His  fourth 
child  W£is  a  bright  and  beautiful  boy ;  but  God 
had  shut  out  from  his  mind  the  perception  of  aU 
visible  lovehness.  Henry  was  born  blind.  The 
hearts  of  the  parents  were  troubled  when  the  ter- 
rible suspicion  first  came  upon  their  minds,  tliat 
the  fair  infant  on  whom  they  gazed,  lay  in  a 
world  of  darkness.  Many  and  various  were  the 
experiments  they  tried  to  ascertain  the  truth,  and 
it  was  long  after  every  friend  and  neighbour  that 
looked  upon  the  child  had  expressed  his  melan- 
choly conviction,  ere  the  father  and  mother  would 
shut  their  hearts  against  all  hope.  But  the  boy 
grew  and  strengthened ;  his  httle  limbs  became 
active ;  he  stood  by  his  mother's  knee,  he  grasped 
her  hand^  and  walked  tottering  at  her  side ;  lan- 
guage came  in  due  season  to  his  tongue,  and  his 
artless  prattle  and  happy  laugh  were  the  loudest 
and  the  liveliest  in  the  house>  Yet  vision  was 
stiH  wanting,  and  the  earth  and  all  it  contained, 
even  the  faces  o!"  those  he  best  loved,  were  shut 
from  his  gaze.  He  was  bom  to  be  a  poor,  use- 
less, helpless  blind  boy;  and  the  hearts  of  his 
parents  sometimes  ached  to  thecore  as  they  look- 
ed on  his  blooming  cheek  and  sightless  eyes,  and 
thpught  of  the  future. 


120  THE  BLIND    BOY. 

But  the  voice  of  complaint  was  a  sound  un- 
known beneath  the  roof  of  WilUam  Halleck,  and 
the  hymn  of  thanksgiving  ascended  every  even- 
ing from  the  lips  of  his  family  circle,  ere  the 
deep  sleep  of  the  weary  came  on  their  eyelids. 

Three  winters  in  succession  had  a  rheumatic 
fever  laid  one  of  the  daughters  of  William  Hal- 
leck on  the  bed  of  sickness ;  yet  she,  too,  like  the 
rest  of  that  humble  household,  was  industrious, 
contented,  and  pious.    She  was  two  years  older 
than  Henry ;  and  the  mutual  sense  of  infirmity 
had  knit  the  bonds  of  a  brother's  and  a  sister's 
love  most  closely  between  them.  When  the  inva 
lid  first  rose  from  the  weary  bed  of  pain,  and  went 
forth  under  the  blue  sky  of  spring,  it  was  the 
strengthening  arm  of  Henry  that  supported  her ; 
and  when  the  blind  boy  asked  of  things  that  were 
shut  up  from  none  but  him,  it  was  the  soft  voice  of 
Mary  that  answered  his  questions,  and  poured 
into  his  mind  the  delight  of  new  ideas.    It  was 
Henry  who  sat  by  Mary's  bedside  in  her  hours  of 
suffering,  and  ministered  to  her  wants.  He  knew 
by  her  breathing  when  she  slept,  and  remained 
still  and  silent  in  his  darkness  till  she  woke.    He 
knew  by  the  very  tones  of  her  voice  when  she  was 
better,  and  when  she  was  worse,  and  though  he 


THE    BLIND    BOY.  121 

Stole  about  her  room  Avith  the  bent  head  and  out- 
stretched hand  of  the  bhnd,  he  seldom  missed  find- 
ing any  thing  that  IMary  wanted.  And  it  was  Mary 
who  gave  Henry  that  knowledge  of  the  Being  who 
made  him,  which  was  a  bright  light  to  his  mind,  and 
shed  over  his  spirit  a  hope  more  gladdening  than 
the  sunshine  which  cheered  all  outward  things. 

As  soon  as  pain  ceased  to  rack  her  joints  and 
strength  was  in  a  measure  restored  to  her  Yimhs, 
Mary  was  wont  to  arise  and  return  thankfully  to 
those  employments  in  which  alone  she  was  per- 
mitted to  assist  the  toils  of  her  family.  Tlie  first 
warm  days  of  spring  were  to  Henry  days  of  re- 
joicing. As  soon  as  he  felt  their  breath,  he  used 
to  hasten  into  the  house,  crying,  with  a  glad  voice, 
"  Summer  is  coming,  and  Mary  will  get  well  I" 
To  him  the  first  note  of  the  robin  told  not  of  the 
verdure  and  blossoms  which  were  soon  to  cover 
the  face  of  nature  with  beauty  ;  but  it  announced 
that  she  whom  he  loved  would  be  freed  from  her 
pauij  and  come  out  with  him  into  the  pure  air, 
and  go  into  the  fields  and  woods,  gatherinar  frao-- 
rant  wild-flowers,  listening  to  the  music  of  the 
winds,  waters,  and  birds,  and  talking  to  him 
cheerfully  and  usefulljr.  Mary  was  entering  upon 
her  seventeenth  spring;    and  before  the  April 

11 


122  THE   BLIND   BOY. 

snows  had  melted  from  the  fields,  she  was  already 
so  well  that  she  sat  up,  as  she  was  accustomed,  in 
her  little  window,  plying  her  needle  with  a  busy 
and  a  skilful  hand.  There  came  a  heavy  storm 
of  rain  with  warm  south  winds,  and  in  one  night 
the  snowy  mantle  of  the  earth  had  vanished,  and 
the  fields  lay  bare  and  brown  the  next  day,  be- 
neath a  clear  sky  and  a  warm  sun.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful morning,  and  unseen  influences  were  busy 
in  the  trees  that  stretched  their  arms  silently  to 
the  gentle  breeze,  and  in  the  very  sods  that  bask- 
ed in  the  sunshine.  The  leaf  was  preparing  to 
put  forth,  the  green  blade  to  sprout,  and  the  pulses 
of  man  beat  lightly  and  happily  under  the  spell 
of  the  season.  Henry  felt  the  soft  west  wind  on 
his  cheek,  and  heard  the  first  notes  of  the  spring 
birds.  As  soon  as  the  sun  rode  high  in  the  hea- 
vens, he  went  to  summon  Mary  from  her  toils,  to 
walk  with  him  as  far  as  the  Great  Oak,  a  spot 
which  she  loved,  because  it  commanded  a  wide 
and  beautiful  prospect,  and  which  was  dear  to 
him,  because  she  loved  it^  and  because  it  was  al- 
ways the  end  of  their  first  walk  in  spring.  Mary 
hesitated,  for  she  feared  the  dampness  of  the 
ground;  but  Henry  had  gone  with  a  younger 
brother  all  the  way  up  to  the  Great  Oak  on  pur- 


THE    BLIND    BOY.  123 

pose,  and  assured  her  the  path  was  dry.  She 
stood  at  the  door,  and  as  she  looked  up  at  the  clear 
and  beautiful  sky,  around  on  the  landscape,  and 
again  on  the  pleading  face  of  her  blind  brother, 
she  could  not  find  in  her  heart  to  say,  *  No.'  They 
went  out  together,  and  Mary  was  glad  she  had 
gone.  Her  own  heart  seemed  to  expand  with 
quiet  happiness  as  she  walked.  What  invalid  is 
not  happy  in  breathing  the  open  air  for  the  first 
time,  after  tedious  months  of  confinement,  and 
feels  not  as  if  the  simplest  act  of  existence  were 
in  itself  a  luxury  ?  Henry  went  leaping  by  her 
side  with  short  and  joyous  bounds,  pouring  forth 
the  exuberance  of  his  spirits  in  the  songs  she  had 
taught  him,  asking  a  thousand  questions,  and 
sometimes  stopping  to  listen  when  the  sound  of 
a  sheep-bell,  the  note  of  a  bird,  or  the  murmur  of 
a  distant  voice,  struck  on  his  quick  ear.  When  the 
way  was  rough,  he  walked  closer  to  her  side, 
holding  her  hand  tightly,  and  seeming  as  if  made 
happier  by  the  pensive  smiles  on  that  pale  face  he 
could  not  see.  He  asked  her  sometimes  if  the 
walk  was  making  her  cheeks  red,  for  then  he 
knew  that  his  father  would  say  she  was  well ;  and 
sometimes  he  furnished  her  with  food  for  reflec- 
tion^  as  she  wondered  what  ideas  were  conveyed 


124  THE   BLIND    BOY. 

to  his  mind  by  the  terms  he  had  learned  to  use  m 
speaking  of  visible  objects.  At  last  they  came  to 
the  Great  Oak ;  and  as  they  sat  resting  together 
on  a  rock  under  its  leafless  branches,  the  gaiety  of 
the  blind  boy  subsided,  and  he  caught  something 
of  the  same  sedate  happiness  which  pervaded  the 
spirit  of  Mary.  They  talked  together  for  a  long 
time,  and  at  last  sunk  into  silence.  Henry  sat 
musing,  and  Mary  involuntarily  gazed  upon  the 
varying  expressions  that  passed  over  his  sight- 
less, but  eloquent  face,  sometimes  lighting  it  al- 
most with  a  smile,  sometimes  fading  into  sadness, 
betraying  the  changing  tenour  of  his  thoughts, 
which  flowed  on,  guided  only  by  the  mysterious 
laAvs  of  association,  and  unchecked  by  the  move- 
ments of  outward  objects.  At  last  he  asked,  with 
a  mournful  tone — 

'  Mary,  do  you  think  it  v/ould  be  a  hard  thing  if 
I  were  to  die  young  V 

Mary  shrunk  from  a  question  which  seemed  so 
natural  for  one  in  his  situation  ;  because  she  did 
not  imagine  that  such  thoughts  had  ever  entered 
the  mind  of  the  gay  and  laughing  boy.  She  was 
startled,  too,  at  the  coincidence  between  their  re- 
flections ;  it  was  as  if  she  had  looked  into  his 
mind,  and  found  it  a  mirror  of  her  own.  But  she 


THE   BLIND   BOY.  125 

asked  Henry  quietly,  if  he  were  weary  of  the  life 
God  had  given  him. 

*0h !  no ;'  returned  the  blind  boy,  '  but  it  would 
not  frighten  me,  or  make  me  unhappy,  Mary,  if  I 
knew  that  I  were  going  to  die.  I  know  I  must  be 
a  burden  all  my  life  to  my  parents,  and  I  can  be 
of  little  use  to  any  one — even  to  you  !  I  think — I 
know  not  why — it  was  not  meant  I  should  stay 
here  long.  God  will  soon  see  whether  I  am  pa- 
tient, amiable,  and  pious ;  he  will  take  me  away 
when  I  have  been  sufficiently  tried,' 

Mary  made  no  answer.  She,  too,  had  mo- 
ments when  the  conviction  that  her  life  was  not 
to  be  a  long  one,  came  upon  her  most  powerfully ; 
and  to  her,  too,  it  brought  that  same  gentle,  me- 
lancholy satisfaction  which  seemed  stealing  over 
the  mind  of  her  blind  brother.  He  had  once  asked 
her,  when  a  very  little  boy,  if  she  thought  he 
should  see  in  heaven ;  and  the  question  had  made 
her  shed  many  tears.  She  wept  now,  while  she 
listened  to  his  plaintive  voice,  and  heard  him  talk 
with  humble  piety  of  his  willingness  to  die  in  the 
first  blossoming  of  youth ;  yet  her  tears  were  not 
tears  of  bitterness,  for  she  saw  that  the  frame  of 
mmd  in  which  he  spoke  was  one  calculated  to 
make  him  happy,  living  or  dying. 

11* 


126  THE   BLIND   auy. 

She  told  him  so  at  last;  and  strove  to  strengthen 
in  his  mind  that  feeling  which  disarms  all  vexa- 
tion and  sorrow — a  perfect  confidence  that  there 
is  a  secret  good  in  every  event  that  befalls  us. 
Her  own  spirit  was  so  deeply  imbued  with  this 
conviction,  that  it  gave  the  colouring  to  her  whole 
character ;  it  was  the  idea  which  occurred  to  her 
habitually  and  incessantly ;  it  was  the  secret  of 
that  peace  of  mind  which  neither  trouble,  pover- 
ty, nor  sickness,  could  ruffle.  She  taught  him  how 
to  exercise  his  mind  in  trying  to  discover  the  good 
shrouded  in  seeming  evil ;  and  how,  when  the 
justice  and  mercy  of  any  event  were  past  finding 
out,  to  give  up  the  search  in  undoubting  confi- 
dence that  all  was  right,  suffering  not  his  soul  to 
be  disquieted. 

The  youthful  pair  rose  at  last  to  return  home, 
in  the  holiest  and  happiest  temper.  Their  hearts 
Avere  filled  with  devotion,  and  with  love  for  all 
God's  creation,  and  the  pure  and  beautiful  in- 
stinct of  fraternal  love  had  received  an  impulse 
from  a  conversation  which  they  felt  had  made 
them  both  wiser  and  better.  The  influence  of  com- 
munion on  holy  topics  is  happy  and  salutary,  and 
the  glow  of  renewed  confidence  and  esteem  which 
succeeds  such  intercourse  between  kindred  spi- 
rits is  delightful. 


THE   BLIND   BOY.  127 

Mary  was  still  an  invalid,  and  soon  felt  that 
she  had  made  more  exertion  than  she  ought  to 
have  done.  She  paused  a  moment  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  because  there  were  two  ways  which 
led  home.  They  had  come  by  a  circuitous 
path,  leading  through  pleasant  fields  and  lanes  ; 
and  the  road  by  wiiich  they  now  proposed  to  re- 
turn, would  conduct  them  across  the  mill-brook, 
straight  to  the  village.  She  was  weak  and  faint, 
and  they  took  the  shortest  way.  Silently  they 
walked  on  till  they  had  almost  reached  a  small 
rising  ground  which  lay  between  them  and  the 
mill-stream,  when  Henry  suddenly  exclaimed, 
"  Sister  Mary,  where  are  we  ?  I  hear  the  water 
running  I"  Mary  listened  a  moment,  with  a  sur- 
prised and  anxious  countenance,  and  quickened 
her  pace  as  they  ascended  the  hill.  As  soon  as 
they  came  in  sight  of  the  stream,  she  stopped, 
astonished  and  almost  terrified.  The  heavy  rain 
of  the  previous  day,  and  the  melting  of  the  snow 
among  the  hills,  had  swollen  the  mill-brook  into  a 
deep  and  rapid  stream,  and  it  now  rushed  by  them 
with  the  sound  of  many  v/aters,  bearing  on  its 
turbid  bosom  marks  of  the  devastation  it  had  al- 
ready wrought  in  its  course.  The  young  birches 
and  alders  that  had  shaded  its  green  banks  the 


l28  THE    BLIND    BOY. 

preceding  summer,  torn  up  by  the  roots,  were 
whirled  along  with  the  current ;  and,  amid  the 
white  foam,  Mary  descried  the  wet,  black  planks 
and  beams,  which  told  the  destruction  of  an  old 
mill  of  her  father's,  higher  up  the  stream.  The 
bridge,  and  the  new  mill  just  below  it,  were  yet 
standing,  but  the  waters  rose  furiously  against 
them,  and  both  shook  and  tottered.  Sounds  came 
up  every  moment. amid  the  tumult  which  told 
that  something  unseen  had  given  way ;  and  Mary 
looked  around  in  vain  for  help  or  counsel.  There 
was  not  a  human  being  in  sight.  She  did  not  try 
to  conceal  from  Henry  their  situation  ;  and  though 
the  hand  she  held  did  not  tremble  with  the  natu- 
ral fear  of  one  so  young  and  helpless,  she  saw  by 
his  countenance  that  he  was  awed.  A  short  but 
fervent  prayer  was  in  her  mind.  There  was  no 
time  to  be  lost.  She  grew  weaker  every  moment ; 
and  summoning  up  all  her  strength  for  one  effort, 
with  a  quick,  firm  step,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  nor  left,  she  hastened  upon  the  bridge,  lead- 
ing her  blind  brother.  They  had  already  half 
crossed  it,  when  Henry,  bewildered  by  the  noise 
and  shakmg  under  his  feet,  shrunk  back  involun- 
tarily. Mary  flung  one  arm  around  him,  and 
feebly  strove  to  drag  him  forward,  when,  with  ,, 


THE    BLIND    BOY.  129 

tremendous  crash,  the  main  supporters  of  the 
bridge  gave  way  under  them,  and,  in  an  instant, 
they  were  precipitated  amid  its  wrecks  into  the 
raging  waters. 

There  were  those  M'ho  beheld  this  spectacle, 
and  a  wild  cry  of  agony  arose  amid  the  din 
of  destruction,  but  it  came  not  from  the  lips  of  the 
struggling  suiferers.  William  Halleck  had  come 
forth  to  look  for  his  children,  and  warn  them  of 
the  freshet.  Just  as  he  reached  the  top  of  the 
rising  ground,  opposite  the  one  they  had  de- 
scended, he  beheld  them  with  horror  attempting 
to  cross  the  tottering  bridge.  It  was  but  for  a 
moment ;  as  he  sprang  forward  at  the  sight,  a 
fearful  sound  broke  on  his  ear,  and  in  another  mo- 
ment they  were  snatched  from  his  gaze. 

There  was  a  short  interval  of  confusion,  shouts, 
and  cries.  Friends  and  neighbours  came  running 
over  the  hill  to  the  scene  of  destruction,  and  there 
were  pale,  dismayed  faces,  hasty  suggestions,  and 
wild  efforts  to  discover  and  save  the  drowning  vic- 
tims ;  but  all  in  vain.  Suddenly  the  frantic  father 
descried  his  Henry  sitting,  apparently  in  security, 
upon  some  of  the  wrecks  of  the  bridge,  which  had 
become  j  ammed  together,  and  were  arrested  in  their 
progress  near  the  mill.    At  the  same  moment  the 


130  The  elixd  boy. 

whole  group  caught  sight  of  Mary,  carried  ahve 
and  strugghng  over  the  milldam.  With  one  im^ 
pulse  they  rushed  down  the  banks  and  round  th6 
mill  to  her  rescue.  The  father  followed  his  neigh- 
bours with  hurried  steps  and  trembling  knees,  cast- 
ing a  single  glance  to  ascertain  that  Henry  was 
indeed  safe,  and  calling  to  him,  as  he  passed,  not 
to  stir  till  his  return.  Henry  seemed  not  to  hear. 
He  sat  motionless,  and  crouching  down  in  the 
extremity  of  his  terror,  uttering  quick,  low 
shrieks.  They  were  lost  in  the  tumult,  and  he 
was  left  alone. 

The  father  came  down  to  the  flat  rocks  below 
the  mill,  just  as  the  bruised,  dripping,  and  lifeless 
body  of  his  daughter  was  drawn  out  of  the  water. 
With  sad  countenances  and  silent  lips,  her  two 
elder  brothers  laid  the  pale  corpse — for  such  it 
was — on  a  board,  and  carried  it  hastily  up  to  the 
village  with  a  vain  hope  of  resuscitation.  The  fa- 
ther followed  it  a  few  moments  anxiously ;  and 
then,  suddenly  recollecting  his  helpless  blind  boy, 
he  went  with  one  or  two  neighbours  to  bring  him 
to  his  desolate  home. 

Henry  was  where  he  had  left  him,  bowed  do'wn, 
silent,  motionless.  The  father's  look  grew  fixed 
or^d  earnest  as  he  drew  nigh.     He  strode  hastily 


THE   BLIND    BOY.  131 

over  the  heaps  of  timber  and  ruin,  stooped  to  lift 
his  child,  and  uttered  a  cry  of  horror.  The  lower 
limbs  of  the  poor  blind  boy  were  wedged  fast  be- 
tween two  heavy  beams  of  the  demolished  bridge, 
and  he  had  fainted  with  excess  of  agony.  Wild 
and  almost  superhuman  were  the  efforts  with 
which  the  father  strove  to  relieve  his  child  from 
a  situation  so  horrible ;  but  it  was  not  till  his 
friends  came  with  axe  and  hatchet,  with  calmer 
heads  and  steadier  hands,  to  his  assistance,  that 
the  sufferer  was  extricated. 

It  was  a  night  of  grief  and  agony  beneath  the 
roof  of  William  Halleck.  The  remains  of  the 
fair,  gentle,  and  pious  Mary  lay  stretched  on  her 
own  little  bed  in  one  room,  and,  in  the  next,  fa- 
ther, mother,  brothers,  and  sisters,  hung  weeping 
around  the  couch  of  the  suffering  Henry.  Acute, 
indeed,  were  the  pains  with  which  it  pleased  God 
to  visit  the  youthful  saint ;  and  saint-like,  indeed, 
was  the  resignation  with  which  those  pains  were 
borne.  But  about  midnight  his  agonies  were  sud- 
denly calmed,  and  hope  fluttered  for  a  moment 
in  the  heavy  hearts  of  those  who  loved  him.  It 
was  but  for  a  moment.  The  physician  announced 
that  the  process  of  mortification  had  begim,  and 
death  was  drawing  nigh.    All  at  once  the  voice 


132  THE   BLIND    BOY. 

of  the  blind  boy  was  heard,  calhng  his  mother  in 
a  faint  but  calm  voice.  She  came  to  his  bedside,, 
and  he  took  hold  of  her  hand.  Then  he  asked 
for  his  father,  brothers,  and  sisters.  They  al 
came.  He  touched  each,  and  said,  "  Mary  is  not 
here." 

No  one  spoke,  but  he  felt  his  mother's  hand 
quiver  in  his. 

"  Mary  is  drowned,"  said  he ;  "  God  has  taken, 
her  to  be  an  angel.  Do  not  sob,  mother,  because 
she  and  I  are  to  be  so  much  happier  than  we  ever 
could  be  on  earth.  Let  me  tell  you  of  what  Mary 
and  I  were  talking  this  very  morning,  and  you  will 
all  see  that  God  has  kindly  called  us  away  at  the 
very  time  when  we  were  most  willing,  perhaps 
most  fit  to  die." 

Then  he  told  them  briefly  all  that  had  passed 
that  day,  and,  after  a  moment's  pause,  added : — 

"  Father  and  mother !  I  thank  God  for  taking 
me  aAvay  so  young ;  and  so  too  did  Mary.  You 
will  be  saved  much  trouble,  much  care ;  and  we 
shall  find  no  temptation,  no  sin,  where  we  are 
going.  Mary  will  never  suffer  pain  and  sickness 
again  ;  and  I,  the  poor  blind  boy,  that  never  saw 
even  your  dear  face,  mother,  I  shall  behold  God. 
My  eyes  will  be  opened,  and  T  shall  go  from  a 


THE    BLIND    BOY.  133 

world  of  darkness  into  a  world  of  light.  Promise 
me,  all  of  you,  that  you  will  not  sit  down  and 
mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead,  but  will  observe 
how  wise  and  good  it  was  that  Mary  and  I  should 
both  die  young.  I  have  been  a  happy  boy.  God 
gave  you  a  sick  child  and  a  blind  one  to  try  your 
patience  and  virtue,  and  you  have  borne  the  trial 
well.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  us  both  j  you 
never  said  a  harsh  thing  to  your  blind  boy.  We 
have  just  lived  long  enough  to  try  your  submis- 
sion, but  not  long  enougli  to  be  a  heavy  burden  all 
your  lives  to  you ;  and  now  God  has  taken  us 
away,  just  as  we  could  have  wished,  together,  and 
at  the  best  of  times  to  die— the  best  for  you,  the 
best  for  us.  Sometimes  it  is  hard  to  see  why 
things  should  be  as  they  are ;  but  this  is  an  easy 
matter  to  understand.  I  am  sure  it  is  right,  and 
I  am  happy !" 

Henry  Halleck  never  spoke  again  ;  but  his  last 
words  had  breathed  comfort  into  the  hearts  of  his 
parents,  which  dwelt  there  enduringly  with  his 
memory. 

He  lingered  till  morning.  The  first  red  beam 
of  that  sun  he  had  never  seen,  fell  on  his  pale  fea- 
tures and  sightless  eyes.  He  felt  his  mother 
drawing  open  the  curtain  of  the  little  ^vindow  at 

12 


134  THE    BLIND    BOY. 

his  bedside  that  she  might  behold  his  face  more 
plainly.  With  a  faint  smile  on  his  lips,  he  turned 
towards  her ;  it  became  fixed,  and,  with  a  short 
spasm,  his  innocent  spirit  passed  suddenly  and 
peacefully  into  the  world  he  had  panted  to  know. 

Death  had  at  last  came  under  the  roof  of  Wil- 
liam Halleck,  and  summoned  the  young,  fair,  and 
good ;  but  he  had  come  in  visible  kindness. 

WTien  the  dispensation  is  dark,  dreadful,  and 
mysterious,  latent  good  is  still  there ;  and  the  true 
Christian  seeks  for  it — and  if  he  finds  it  not,  still 
adores  without  doubting. 


THE  ACADEMIC  GROVE. 

BY   MRS.    SIGOURNEY. 


HaiLj  hallowed  Grove  !  where  Attic  genius,  fired, 
To  Immortality's  bright  wreath  aspired ; 
Fair  temples,  hail !  beneath  whose  solemn  shade 
The  musing  babe,  Philosophy,  was  laid. 
Lulled  by  the  classic  fountain's  tuneful  chime, 
To  lingering  dreams,  unearthly,  and  divine. 

Still  steals  thy  voice  in  murmurs  deep  and  clear, 
Ethereal  Plato  !  o'er  the  listening  ear ; 


THE    ACADEMIC    GROVE.  135 

As  when,  amid  yon  garden's  sacred  bound, 
Thy  loved  disciples  sought  its  magic  sound. 
Oft  their  pure  cheeks  the  rushing  tear  confessed, 
As  rose  thy  martyred  master  from  his  rest, 
Once  more  amid  thy  glowing  strains  to  live 
Such  life  as  gratitude  and  thou  couldst  give. 
Oft  did  his  shadowy  semblance  greet  their  eyes, 
In  self-distrusting  virtue  nobly  wise, 
While  fickle  Athens,  spurning  at  liis  creed, 
Filled  the  dire  hemlock-cup — then,  shuddering,  mourned 
her  deed. 

Lo  !  round  yon  tombs  what  stately  spectres  glide. 
While  Fancy  sweeps  the  mists  of  Time  aside. 
The  boastful  Sophist  with  his  wildered  gaze. 
Lost  in  his  own  interminable  maze ; 
The  Stoic  band,  who  rend  in  proud  disdain. 
The  crown  from  Pleasure,  and  the  scourge  from  Pain ; 
The  Sceptic,  doubtful  of  his  trembling  breath, 
The  churlish  Cynic,  frowning  even  in  death — 
All,  all,  from  drear  ObU\ion's  realm  return, 
And  throng  their  leader's  venerated  urn. 

Fair  Trees !  beneath  whose  graceful  shadows  rose 
Majestic  Wisdom  in  serene  repose — 
Tell  how  the  storm  of  Rome's  unsparing  wrath, 
Reft  your  ereen  honours  in  its  awful  ryflt^ 


136  DEAIH. 

And  sternly  twined  in  war's  unpitying  toil 
Your  arms  unfilial  'gainst  your  native  soil.* 

Rise,  humbled  Athens !  from  thy  lot  severe ;  - 
With  dauntless  breast  confront  the  Moslem  spear  j 
In  martial  ranks  thy  princely  sons  array ; 
Snatch  Victory's  palm,  as  on  Plataea's  day; 
Bid  o'er  the  Acropolis  new  lustre  gleam, 
And  with  fond  tears  restore  the  grove  of  Acadeeme. 
Hartford,  June,  1828. 


DEATH. 

As  represented  in  a  beautiful  Antique. 
BY   H.    PICKERING. 


O  Death  !  so  long  the  cause  of  all  our  tears, 
Art  thou,  in  truth,  thus  beautiful  and  fair  7 — 
Then  let  me  haste  to  that  pale  region,  where 
The  myriad  sons  of  men  of  other  years 

Have  laid  them  down.     If  such  thou  art,  our  fears 
Are  vain,  and  sweet  it  were  with  thee  to  share 
The  grave's  repose.    But  why  that  pensive  air, 
When  youth  eternal  on  thy  brow  appears  7 — 

♦Sylla  employed  the  beautiful  trees  from  the  Academic 
Grove,  to  construct  machines  with  which  to  batter  and  destroy 
the  city  of  Athens,  when  besieged  by  him,  eightv-sever 
years  B  C 


THE    SURRENDER   OF   CALAIS.  137 

W^.fi  nothing  else  seems  mortal  in  thy  mien. 
Ih  thee,  methinks,  the  beauteous  type  I  see 
Of  that  bright  being  man  himself  shall  be, 

When  from  a  sleep  as  breathless  as  serene 
He  wakes — save  that  upon  his  radiant  face 
Languor  and  sorrow  then  shall  leave  no  trace. 


THE  SURRENDER  OF  CALAIS. 

BY   EMMA   C.   EMBURY. 


The  king  was  in  his  tent, 

And  his  lofty  heart  beat  high, 
As  he  gazed  on  the  city's  battered  walls 

With  proud  and  flashing  eye; 
But  darker  grew  his  brow,  and  stern. 

As  slowly  onward  came 
The  chiefs  who  long  had  dared  to  spurn 

The  terror  of  his  name. 

With  calm  and  changeless  cheek. 
Before  the  king  they  stood. 
For  their  native  soil  to  offer  up 
Tlie  sacrtfice  of  blood. 
Like  felons  were  they  meanly  clad, 
But  th©  lightning  of  their  look, 
12* 


138  THE   SURRENDER   OF   CALAIS. 

The  marble  sternness  of  their  brow, 
E'en  the  monarch  could  not  brook. 

With  angry  voice  he  cried, 

•  Haste !  bear  them  off  to  death ! 
Let  the  trumpet's  joyous  shout  be  blent 

"With  the  traitor's  parting  breath  1' 
Then  silently  they  turned  away, 

Nor  word  nor  sound  awoke. 
Till,  from  the  monarch's  haughty  train, 

The  voice  of  horror  broke. 

And,  hark !  a  step  draws  near — 
Not  like  the  heavy  clang 
Of  the  warrior's  tread — and  through  the  guards 
A  female  figure  sprang ; 
*  A  boon !  a  boon !  my  noble  king ! 

If  still  thy  heart  can  feel 
The  love  Philippa  once  could  claim, 
Look  on  me  while  I  kneel. 

*  'Tis  for  thyself  I  pray; 
Let  not  the  darkening  cloud 

Of  base-born  cruelty  arise, 
Thy  glory  to  enshroud. 
Nay ,  nay — I  will  not  rise ; 
For  never  more  thy  wife 


THE   SURRENDER   OF   CALAIS.  139 

Will  hail  thee  victor ,  till  thy  soul 
Can  conquer  passion's  strife. 

*  Turn  not  away ,  my  king ! 
Look  not  in  anger  down ! 
Pve  lived  so  long  upon  thy  smile, 
I  cannot  bear  thy  frown. 
Oh !  doom  me  not,  dear  lord,  to  feel 

The  pang  all  pangs  above, 
To  see  the  Ught  I  worship  fade,     ' 
^  And  blush,  because  I  love. 

'  Think  how,  for  thee,  I  laid 
My  woman's  fears  aside. 
And  dared,  where  charging  squadrons  met, 
With  dauntless  front  to  ride.* 
Think  how,  in  all  the  matchless  strength 

Of  woman's  love,  I  spread 
Thy  banners,  till  they  proudly  waved 
In  victory  o'ca:  my  head. 

'  Thou  saidst  that  I  deserved 
To  share  thy  glorious  crown ; 
Oh  !  force  xne  not  to  turn  away 
In  shame  from  thy  renown. 

♦  At  the  battle  of  Neville's  Cross,  in  which  the  Scots  vrere 
defeated,  and  the  king  taken  prisoner.     Vide  Hume. 
^  5 


140  THE    SURRENDER    OF   CALAIS. 

My  Edward  !  lliou  wert  wont  to  bear 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart ; 
Then  listen  to  Pliilippa's  prayer, 

And  let  these  men  depart.' 

Oh !  what  is  all  the  pride 

Of  man's  oft  boasted  power, 
Compared  with  those  sweet  dreams  that  wake 

In  love's  triumphant  hour ! 
Slowly  the  haughty  king  unbent 

His  stern  and  vengeful  brow. 
And  the  look  he  turned  upon  her  face 

Was  full  of  fondness  now. 

Ne'er  yet  was  woman  slow 
To  read  in  telltale  eyes, 
Such  thoughts  as  these — a  moment  more 
And  on  his  breast  she  lies. 
Then,  wliile  her  slender  form  still  clung 

To  his  supporting  arm, 
He  cried,  •  Sweet,  be  it  as  thou  wilt, 
They  shall  not  meet  with  harm  !' 

Then  from  the  patriot  b;ind. 
Arose  one  thrilling  cry  ; 
And  tears  rained  down  the  iron  cheek, 
That  turned  unblenched  to  die. 


YOUTHFUL  FANCIES.  i^i 

•Now,  we  indeed  are  slaves,'  they  cried; 

'  Now  vain  our  warlike  arts — 
Edward  has  won  our  shattered  walls, 

Philippa  wins  our  hearts.' 


YOUTHFUL  FANCIES. 

BY  LOUISA  P.  SMITH. 


Oh  !  youth's  gay  dreams  are  witching  things, 

And  falser  still  than  fair ; 
Fragile  harps  of  a  thousand  strings, 

Sounds  of  the  summer  air. 

What  are  they  like  to  1  The  song  of  a  bird, 

In  summer  only  known ; 
The  voice  of  music,  a  meeting  word, 

Things  bright  and  quickly  flown — 

The  farewell  beams  of  the  setting  sun, 

So  beautifvd  in  parting ; 
The  feeling  woke  by  a  song  just  done, 

Light  through  waters  darting — 

The  rainbow  in  June ;  the  rising  moon ; 
The  buds  of  infant  spring — 


i42  THE  ITALIAN  BOULEVARD. 

Oh!  youth's  gay  dreams  are  witching  things, 
That  fly  on  a  chainless  wing. 


THE  ITALIAN  BOULEVARD. 


There  is  no  other  place  where  human  life 
wears  such  an  aspect  of  gaiety,  as  in  Paris. 
Every  thing  is  here  arranged  for  amusement  and 
pleasure,  and,  to  a  stranger,  the  streets,  prome- 
nades, and  public  gardens,  have  always  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  fete  day.  The  lively  countenances 
of  the  multitude,  the  air  of  sentiment  and  satis- 
faction which  pervades  every  face,  and,  above  all, 
the  great  numbers  of  graceful  and  well  dressed 
females  abroad,  unite  to  impress  the  new  comer 
with  the  idea  that  he  is  among  a  people  excited 
by  some  great  occasion.  But  on  the  morrow  the 
same  scene  returns  ;  and  again  and  again,  for 
weeks  and  months,  he  finds  himself  drawn  into 
the  gay  tide,  moving,  mingling,  and  sympathizing 
with  it. 

An  American  usually  goes  to  Paris,  after  having 
recently  left  London,  and  he  therefore  sees  the 
former  place  to  great  advantage.  Nothing  can  be 


THE   ITALIAN    BOULEVARD.  143 

more  unlike  than  these  two  great  capitals.  Lon- 
don is  dark  and  dirty,  canopied  with  fogs,  and 
swimming  in  mud.  The  streets  are  choked  with 
a  mass  of  carts  and  coaches,  lords  and  porters, 
ladies  and  loungers — all  crowding  and  hurrying 
along  as  if  they  were  engaged  in  a  race,  and  life 
and  death  were  on  the  issue. 

In  Paris  it  is  different.  Instead  of  poring  along 
tlie  dirty  and  narrow  streets,  the  people  seek  the 
Boulevards,  the  gardens,  or  other  promenades, 
and  even  in  those  parts  where  business  draws  to- 
gether a  crowd  of  people,  the  characteristic  order 
and  politeness  of  the  French  are  distinctly  vi- 
sible. 

Nothing  can  better  mark  the  difference  of  man- 
ners in  the  two  places,  than  some  particular  com- 
parisons. In  entering  a  theatre  in  London,  the 
crowd  rushes  and  crushes  in  by  main  strength, 
and  he  who  is  strongest  is  the  best  fellow.  In 
Paris,,  the  people  form  m  a  procession,  and  enter 
with  the  utmost  decorum. 

In  the  fashionable  walks  as  great  a  contrast 
is  exhibited.  The  crowds  who  promenade  the 
parks  and  gardens  of  London,  for  the  sake  of  re- 
viewing each  other  with  more  success^  form  into 
two  lines,  and  pass  in  opposite  directions,  as  if  it 


144  THE    ITALIAN    BOULEVARD. 

was  all  an  affair  of  business  and  parade,  to  be  des- 
patched in  a  given  time,  and  therefore  requiring 
great  system  and  effort.  In  Paris,  on  the  contra- 
ry, at  the  gardens  of  the  Tuilleries  or  the  Luxem- 
bourg, at  the  Champs  Elysee,  or  the  Boulevard 
Italien,  the  people  are  seen  engaged  in  a  thousand 
different  ways.  Some  are  WEilking,  some  saun- 
tering— many  are  sitting  on  benches,  others  are 
musing  beneath  the  groves — one  is  pondering  the 
glassy  surface  of  a  fountain,  another  is  gazing  on 
a  group  of  statuary.  Here  an  old  man  is  looking 
with  a  delighted  face  upon  a  family  of  romping 
children,  attended  by  their  nurse — there  a  senti- 
mental youth  is  filling  the  ear  of  a  duenne  with 
idle  compliments,  that  he  may  now  and  then  steal 
some  significant  speeches  into  the  ear  of  her 
beautiful  protegL 

This  contrast  might  be  extended,  but  we  must 
close  it  with  the  observ^ation,  that  a  stranger  in 
England  sees  the  worst  part  of  the  English,  and 
in  France  the  best  part  of  the  French  character. 
In  one  country,  he  finds  himself  an  outlaw,  sus- 
pected and  repelled,  prejudged  and  sentenced,  as  a 
being  who  has  some  design  upon  the  purse  or  pri- 
vileges of  every  man  he  meets.  In  the  other,  he 
is  received  with  respect  and  kindness.     Out  of 


THE   ITALIAN   BOULEVARD.  145 

doors,  a  Londoner  is  systematically  arrogant  and 
repulsive.  Liberality  and  hospitality  he  leaves  at 
home ;  and  there  they  may  be  found  in  their  best 
sense.  A  Parisian  has  no  home.  He  lives  abroad, 
and  makes  every  lounging  place,  the  street,  field, 
garden,  and  Boulevard,  his  drawing  room,  where 
he  demeans  himself  Avith  constant  courtesy. 

Among  the  various  promenades,  there  is  none 
more  attractive  than  the  Italian  Boulevard.  It  is 
a  broad  street,  with  magnificent  houses  on  either 
side,  principally  occupied  as  cafes.  It  is  near  the 
Chaussee  D'Antin,  the  residence  of  the  higher 
classes  in  Paris,  and  is  a  favourite  resort  of  the 
gay  part  of  the  fashionable  loungers.  In  the  even- 
ing, it  is  lighted  with  a  multitude  of  lamps,  and 
nothing  can  exceed  the  brilliancy  of  the  scene. 
Tiiousands  of  people  are  sitting  m  front  of  the 
cafes,  where  they  are  served  with  lemonade,  ice- 
creams, and  cordials,  while  other  thousands  are 
flowing  to  and  fro,  presenting  a  gay  and  mazy 
spectacle,  perpetually  changing  and  arranging 
like  the  forms  and  figures  of  a  kaleidoscope. 

To  a  mind  yet  alive  to  new  impressions,  and 
pleased  with  variety,  this  scene  is  scarcely  less 
than  enchanting.  But  it  was  my  fortune  to  wit- 
ness a  painftl  iastance  of  a  contrary  effect* 

13 


146  THE   ITALIAN   BOULEVARD. 

While  I  was  in  Paris,  a  young  Englishman,  by 
the  name  of  Moore,  tooiv  lodgings  at  the  hotel 
where  I  was  staying.  He  was  a  singularly  hand- 
some man,  about  twenty-eight,  and,  on  acquaint- 
ance, I  found  him  in  a  high  degree  intelligent  and 
accomplished.  It  afterwards  came  to  my  know- 
ledge, that  he  was  a  man  of  family  and  some  for- 
tune, and  had  spent  his  life  hitherto  in  a  career  of 
deep  devotion  to  dissipation.  Tired  of  London, 
palled  with  its  pleasures,  restless  and  anxious  for 
something  to  excite  his  cloyed  sensibilities,  he 
came  to  tlie  great  capital  of  luxury  and  enjoy- 
ment. 

He  had  been  sometime  in  Paris,  when  I  hap- 
pened one  evening  to  see  him  leaning,  with  a  de- 
jected air,  against  one  of  the  trees,  which  line  the 
walks  of  the  Italian  Boulevard.  The  light  of  the 
lamps  shone  strongly  around,  and  displayed  the 
brilliant  tide  of  gay  beings,  passing  as  usual  along 
the  pavement.  There  was  a  mixture  of  bitterness 
and  melancholy  in  the  face  of  Moore,  that  made 
me  hesitate  to  speak  to  him.  When  I  did  so,  he 
started,  and  with  evident  effort  put  aside  the  looks 
which  had  attracted  my  attention. 

We  returned  together  to  our  hotel,  the  con- 
versation tm'ning  upon  the  fact,  whfbh  to  me  ap- 


THE    ITALIAN    BOULEVARD.  147 

peared  singular,  that  suicide  should  be  common 
among  so  cheerful  a  people  as  the  French.  Moore 
insisted  that  there  was  nothing  remarkable  in  it 
*  They  live,'  said  he,  'for  enjoyment;  and  life  is 
no  longer  worth  having,  when  it  ceases  to  afford 
it.  In, a  place  like  Paris,  where  the  cup  of  plea- 
sure is  freely  offered,  and  no  restraint  is  put  upon 
him  to  whose  lip  it  is  given,  it  is  soon  exhausted. 
I  can  hardly  think  him  inconsistent  who  dashe 
that  cup  to  pieces,  when  it  <3an  only  remind  him 
that  he  is  the  poorest  of  beggars.  The  only  thing 
I  am  surprised  at,  is,  that  the  Parisians  should 
choose  drowning  as  the  most  ehgible  method  of 
putting  an  end  to  existence.  I  believe  that  suffo- 
cation by  charcoal  would  be  a  less  painful  method 
of  terminating  life.' 

We  now  arrived  at  our  hotel,  and  parted.  In 
the  morning,  Moore's  servant  foimd  his  door 
locked,  and  no  one  answered  to  his  call.  He  en- 
tered by  force,  and  discovered  that  his  master 
was  dead.  He  lay  in  his  bed,  and  had  the  calm 
look  of  sleep.  A  pan  of  charcoal  was  standing  in 
the  room,  and  explained  the  death  of  the  unfortu- 
nate stranger.  A  brief  note  was  found  on  his 
writing  table,  addressed  to  the  keeper  of  the  ho- 
tel, giving  certain  directions  respecting  his  effects, 


148  DREAMS   OF   BOYHOOD 

and  adding,  as  a  thing  in  which  no  one  could 
have  much  interest,  that  weariness  of  hfe  had  led 
him  to  put  an  end  to  his  existence. 


DREAMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


BY  MRS.  A.  M.  WELLS. 


Yon  moss-grown  cot — I  gaze  on  it, 

Yon  cot,  the  green  hill-side  below ; 

And  as  I  gaze,  I  feel  the  tears 

Mine  aching  eyes  o'erflow — 

It  looks  so  as  it  used  to  look, 

When  in  the  ivied  porch  we  sat, 

My  grandam,  she  a  reverend  dame. 

And  I,  a  boy  unknown  to  fame ; — 

But  what  recked  I  of  that, 

When  just  to  sit  beside  her  knee 

Was  happiness  enough  for  me  7 

To  sit  and  listen,  while  she  told 

The  wonderous  tales  of  ancient  time — 

Of  love-crossed  maiden,  hero  slain, 

Legend  and  stately  rhyme — 

How  my  young  blood  would  warm  to  hear 

The  feats  that  noble  warrior  did  ! 


DREAMS  OF  BOYHOOD.  149 

My  longing  spirit  stirred  to  see 

The  big  war  and  its  pageantry ; 

But  in  her  lap  I  hid 

My  piteous  face,  when  tale  of  wo 

So  mastered  me  that  tears  would  flow. 

She  was  a  stately  woman ; — ^proud, 

'Twas  said,  she  had  been,  in  her  youth ; 

And  rigid  was  she  in  her  zeal 

For  equity  and  truth. 

But  there  was  ever  in  her  eye, 

When  turned  on  me,  her  orphan  boy, 

A  yearning  tenderness,  that  told 

Of  gentler  thoughts,  yet  scarcely  cold — 

Remains  of  hope  and  joy, 

That  oft  in  life's  declining  hour, 

Re\ive  in  bright,  though  transient  power. 

Who  think  that  pleasure's  riot  race, 
Life's  bustle,  with  its  pomp  and  show, 
Alone  can  wake,  alone  are  worth 
The  eager  spirits  glow — 
They  should  have  seen,  albeit  that  age 
And  pain  her  reverend  form  had  bent, 
The  holy  smile,  with  chastened  ray, 
Serenely  in  her  eye  that  la-y, 
While  greedily  I  lent 


13* 


150  PRAIRIE  ON  FIRE. 

My  very  soul  with  raptured  ear, 
As  life  were  all  too  short  to  hear. 

Oh  !  never  shall  those  hours  return  ! 

The  moss-grown  cot — the  humble  thatch- 

The  wicket — countless  days  have  flown 

Since  last  I  raised  its  latch. 

She  sleeps  within  her  honoured  grave, 

Who  charmed  away  my  boyish  years ; 

And  there  is  nothing  left  for  me, 

Where  all  my  pleasure  used  to  be, 

But  memory  and  tears — 

The  world  has  brought  no  recompense 

For  what  I  lost  when  she  went  hence. 


THE  PRAIRIE  ON  FIRE. 


Until  within  a  short  period,  the  few  men  who 
were  distinguished  m  this  country,  either  in  poUte 
literature  or  the  arts,  were  mere  pupils  of  the 
English  schools.  Our  writers  of  works  of  imagi- 
nation were  servile  copyists  of  English  writers, 
not  only  in  style,  but  in  thought,  choice  of  sub- 
jects, and  the  way  of  treating  them.    If  a  poet 


THE  PRAIRIE  ON  FIRE.  151 

described  the  seasons,  he  borroAved  images  from 
Thomson,  and  not  from  the  more  beautiful  skies 
above,  or  the  milder  landscapes  around.  If  a  no- 
velist wrote  a  story,  his  heroes,  heroines,  plots,  ad- 
ventures— in  short,  his  whole  machinery,  were 
borrowed  from  English  books. 

Similar  remarks  would  also  apply  to  Ameri- 
can painters.  Until  within  a  few  years,  they 
seldom  condescended  to  spoil  their  canvass  with 
an  American  landscape,  or  a  scene  from  Yankee 
history. 

We  are  happy  to  observe  that  a  new  era  of  lite- 
rature and  the  arts  has  dawned  upon  our  country. 
Our  writers  of  historical  fiction  now  present  the 
world  with  tales  into  which  are  woven  our  OM'n 
rivers,  lakes,  hills,  mountains,  meadows,  and  prai- 
ries— our  own  spring  and  summer,  autumn,  and 
winter — our  own  heroes  and  our  own  society; 
thus  adding  to  the  natural  interest  felt  in  "  our 
own,  our  native  land,"  the  finer  associations  of 
poetry  and  romance.  Our  omti  painters,  too, 
have  at  length  discovered  the  beauty  with  which 
nature  is  adorned  in  this  western  world,  and  the 
moral  interest  which  attaches  to  the  pages  of  its 
history. 

There  are  persons  who  look  upon  these  things 


152  THE  PRAIRIE  ON  FIRE. 

with  indifference,  and  others  who  regard  them 
Avith  disgust.  Painting,  poetry,  and  romance, 
even  of  a  national  and  historical  character,  are 
imagined  to  be  childish  trifles  by  many,  and  by 
many  others  to  be  pernicious  instruments  of  folly 
and  dissipation.  We  regard  them  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent light.  We  believe  them  to  be  powerful 
auxiliaries  to  the  formation  of  national  charactei 
— calculated  in  their  nature  to  elevate  and  refine 
society,  and  to  cherish  and  confirm  one  of  the 
best  sentiments  of  the  human  breast — love  of 
country.  In  this  light,  they  acquire  importance, 
and  we  therefore  mark  their  progress  with  pecu- 
liar interest. 

The  picture,  of  which  we  here  present  a  copy, 
under  the  title  of  the  Prairie  on  Fire,  is,  we  be- 
lieve, Fisher's  first  attempt  at  a  subject  of  an  histo- 
rical character.  His  success  is  truly  surprising, 
and  justifies  the  anticipation  that  he  will  soon  add 
to  the  reputation  he  sustains  as  an  excellent  land- 
scape painter,  that  also  of  a  successful  painter  of 
historical  subjects. 

The  scene  of  the  picture  mentioned  above,  will 
be  found  in  Cooper's  Prairie,  to  which  we  refer 
the  reader.  It  represents  the  party,  consistmg  of 
the  Trapper,  IVIiddleton,  Paul  Hover,  Dr.  Batteus, 


THE  PRAIRIE  ON  FIRE.  153 

Inez,  and  Ellen,  surrounded  by  the  encroaching 
flames,  at  the  moment  when  the  Trapper,  "  ap- 
proached the  opposite  margin  of  the  grass,  which 
still  environed  them  in  a  tall  and  dangerous  cir- 
cle, and  selecting  a  handful  of  the  driest  of  the 
herbage,  he  placed  it  over  the  pan  of  his  rifle. 
The  light  combustible  kindled  at  the  flash.  Then 
he  placed  the  little  flame  into  a  bed  of  the  stand- 
ing fog,  and  withdrawing  from  the  spot  to  the 
centre  of  the  ring,  he  patiently  awaited  the  re- 
sult. 

"  The  subtle  element  seized  with  avidity  upon 
its  new  fuel,  and  in  a  moment  forked  flames  were 
gliding  among  the  grass,  as  the  tongues  of  ru- 
minating animals  are  seen  rolling  among  their 
food,  apparently  in  quest  of  its  sweetest  portions. 

" '  Now,'  said  the  old  man,  holding  up  a  finger, 
and  laughing  in  his  peculiarly  silent  manner,  'you 
shall  see  fire  fight  fire !" 

The  force  and  merit  of  the  picture  Mill  be  best 
understood  by  reading  the  sixth  chapter  of  the 
second  volume  of  the  work  referred  to. 


TO  A  DAUGHTER 

OF    THE    LATE    GOVERNOR    CLINTON 


BY  J.  B.  VAN  SCHAICK. 


And  thou,  fair  flower  of  hope ! 
Like  a  sweet  violet,  deUcate  and  frail. 
Hast  reared  thy  tender  stem  beneath  an  oak. 
Whose  noble  hmbs  o'ershadowed  thee.     The  damp 
Cold  dews  of  the  unhealthy  world  fell  not 
On  thee ;  the  gaudy  sunshine  of  its  pomp 
Came  tempered  to  thine  eye  in  milder  beams. 
The  train  of  life's  inevitable  ills 
Fell  like  the  April  rain  upon  the  flowers. 
But  thou  wert  shielded — no  rude  pelting  storms 
Came  down  unbroken  by  thy  sheltering  tree. 

Fallen  is  the  oak. 
The  monarch  of  a  forest  sleeps.     Around, 
The  withered  ivy  and  the  broken  brancli, 
Are  silent  evidence  of  greatness  past. 
And  his  sweet,  cherished  violet,  has  drunk 
The  bitter  dews  until  its  cup  was  full. 
And  now  strange  trees  wave  o'er  it,  and  the  shade 
Of  weeping-willows  and  down-swaying  boughs 
Stretch  toward  it  with  melancholy  sorrow — 


JOSHUA.  155 

All  sympathizing  with  the  drooping  flower. 
And  years  shall  pass  ere  living  trees  forget 
That  stately  oak,  and  what  a  fame  he  shed 
O'er  all  the  forest,  and  how  each  was  proud 
That  he  could  call  himself  a  kindred  thins. 


-=• 


Long  may  the  beauty  of  that  violet 
Grow  in  the  soil  of  hearts ;  till,  delicate. 
Yet  ripened  into  summer  loveliness, 
A  thousand  striving  branches  all  shall  cast 
Their  friendly  shadows  in  protection  there ! 


JOSHUA 

COMMANDING    THE    SUN    AND    MOON    TO 
STAND    STILL. 

BY  J.  B.  VAN  SCHAICK. 


The  day  rose  clear  on  Gibeon.     Her  high  towers 
Flashed  the  red  sunbeams  gloriously  back, 
And  the  wind-driven  banners,  and  the  steel 
Of  her  ten  thousand  spears,  caught  dazzUngly 
The  sun,  and  on  the  fortresses  of  rock 
Played  a  soft  glow,  that  as  a  mockery  seemed 
To  the  stem  men  who  girded  by  its  light. 
Beth-horon  in  the  distance  slept,  and  breath 


I5G  JOSHUA. 

Was  pleasant  in  the  vale  of  Ajalon, 

V/here  armed  heels  trod  carelessly  the  sweet 

Wild  spices,  and  the  trees  of  guin  were  shook 

By  the  rude  armour  on  their  branches  hung. 

Suddenly  in  the  camp,  without  the  walls, 

Rose  a  deep  murmur,  and  the  men  of  war 

Gathered  around  their  kings,  and  *  Joshua  ! 

From  Gilgal,  Joshua !'  was  whispered  low, 

As  with  a  secret  fear,  and  then,  at  once, 

With  the  abruptness  of  a  dream,  he  stood 

Upon  the  rock  before  them.     Calmly  then 

Raised  he  his  helm,  and  with  his  temples  bare 

And  hands  uplifted  to  the  sky,  he  prayed ; — 

'  God  of  this  people,  hear !  and  let  the  sun 

Stand  upon  Gibeon,  still ;  and  let  the  moon 

Rest  in  the  vale  of  Ajalon !'  He  ceased — 

And  lo !  the  moon  sits  motionless,  and  earth 

Stands  on  her  axis  indolent.     The  sun 

Pours  the  unmoving  column  of  his  rays 

In  undiminished  heat ;  the  hours  stand  still ; 

The  shade  hath  stopped  upon  the  dial's  face ; 

The  clouds  and  vapours  that  at  night  are  wont 

To  gather  and  enshroud  the  lower  earth, 

Are  struggling  with  strange  rays,  breaking  them  up, 

Scattering  the  misty  phalanx  hke  a  wand. 

Glancing  o'er  mountain  tops,  and  shining  down, 

In  broken  raassss  on  the  astonished  plains. 

The  fevered  cattle  group  in  wondering  herds ; 


JOSHUA.  157 

The  weary  birds  go  to  their  leafy  nests, 

But  find  no  darkness  there,  and  wander  forth 

On  feeble,  fluttering  wing,  to  find  a  rest ; 

The  parched,  baked  earth,  undamped  by  usual  dewsj 

Has  gaped  and  cracked,  and  heat,  dry,  mid-day  heat, 

Comes  like  a  drunkard's  breath  upon  the  heart. 

On  with  thy  armies,  Joshua !  The  Lord 
God  of  Sabbaoth  is  the  avenger  now ! 
His  voice  is  in  the  thunder,  and  his  wrath 
Poureth  the  beams  of  the  retarded  sun, 
With  the  keen  strength  of  arrows,  on  their  sight. 
The  unwearied  sun  rides  in  the  zenith  sky  ; 
Nature,  obedient  to  her  Maker's  voice, 
Stops  in  full  course  all  her  mysterious  wheels. 
On !  till  avencrinc  swords  have  drunk  the  blood 
Of  all  Jehovah's  enemies,  and  till 
Thy  banners  in  returning  triumph  wave ; 
Then  yonder  orb  shall  set  mid  golden  clouds, 
And,  while  a  dewy  rain  falls  soft  on  earth, 
Show  in  the  heavens  the  glorious  bow  of  God, 
Shining  the  rainbow  banner  of  the  skies. 

14 


158  THE  seabird's  tale. 

THE  SEABIRD'S  TALE. 

BY  S.  G.  GOODRICH. 


Far,  far  o'er  the  waves  is  my  island  throne, 
Where  the  seagull  roams  and  reigns  alone ; 
Where  nought  is  seen  but  the  beetling  rock, 
And  notliing  is  heard  but  the  ocean  shock, 
And  the  scream  of  birds  when  the  storm  is  niah. 
And  the  crash  of  the  wreck,  and  the  fearful  cry 
Of  drowning  men  in  *  their  agony,' 

I  love  to  sit,  when  the  waters  sleep, 
And  ponxJer  the  depths  of  the  glassy  deep, 
Till  I  dream  that  I  float  on  a  corse  at  sea, 
And  sing  of  the  feast  that  is  made  for  me. 
I  love  on  the  rush  of  the  storm  to  sail, 
And  mingle  my  scream  with  the  hoarser  gale. 

When  the  sky  is  dark,  and  the  billow  high, 

And  the  tempest  sweeps  in  terror  by, 

I  love  to  ride  on  the  maddening  blast. 

And  flap  my  wing  o'er  the  fated  mast, 

And  sing  to  the  crew  a  song  of  fear, 

Of  the  reef  and  the  surge  that  await  them  here. 


THE  SEABIRD's  TALE.  159 

When  the  storm  is  done,  and  the  feast  is  o'er, 

I  love  to  sit  on  the  rocky  shore, 

And  tell  in  the  ear  of  the  dying  breeze, 

The  tales  that  are  hushed  in  the  sullen  seas — 

Of  the  ship  that  sank  in  the  reefy  surge, 

And  left  her  fate  to  the  seabird's  dirge — 

Of  the  lover  that  sailed  to  meet  his  bride, 

And  his  story  left  to  the  secret  tide — 

Of  the  father  that  v^ent  on  the  trustless  main, 

And  never  was  met  by  his  child  again — 

And  the  hidden  things  which  the  waves  conceal, 

And  the  seabird's  song  can  alone  reveal. 

I  tell  of  the  ship  that  hath  found  a  grave — 

Her  spars  still  float  on  the  restless  wave, 

But  down  in  the  halls  of  the  sullen  deep, 

The  forms  of  the  brave  and  the  beautiful  sleep. 

I  saw  the  storm  as  it  gathered  fast, 

I  heard  the  roar  of  the  coming  blast, 

I  marked  the  ship  in  her  fearful  strife, 

As  she  flew  on  the  tide  '  like  a  thincr  of  life.', 

But  the  whirlwind  came  and  her  masts  were  wrung 

Away,  and  away  on  the  waters  flung ; 

I  sat  on  the  gale  o'er  the  sea-swept  deck, 

And  screamed  in  deUght  o'er  the  coming  wreck— 

I  flew  to  the  reef  with  a  heart  of  glee, 

And  wiled  the  sliip  to  her  destiny. 


160  THE  SEABIRD's  TALE* 

On  the  hidden  rocks  like  a  hawk  she  rushed, 

And  the  sea  tlirough  her  riven  timbers  gushed — 

On  the  whirUng  surge  the  wreck  was  flung, 

And  loud  on  the  gale  wild  voices  rung. 

I  gazed  on  the  scene — I  saw  despair 

On  the  pallid  brows  of  a  youthful  pair ; 

The  maiden  drooped  like  a  gentle  flower 

That  is  torn  away  from  its  native  bower — 

Her  arms  round  her  lover  she  wildly  twined, 

And  gazed  on  the  sea  with  a  wildered  mind. 

He  bent  o'er  the  trembler,  and  sheltered  her  form 

From  the  plash  of  the  sea  and  the  sweep  of  the  storm* 

But  wo  to  the  lover,  and  wo  to  the  maid, 

Whose  hopes  on  the  treacherous  Sea  are  laid, 

For  he  is  a  king,  whose  palaces  shine 

In  lustre  and  light  down  the  pearly  brine, 

And  he  loves  to  gather  in  glory  there. 

The  choicest  things  of  the  earth  and  air. 

In  his  deep  saloons  with  coral  crovpned, 

Where  gems  are  sparkling  above  and  around, 

He  gathers  his  harem  of  love  and  grace. 

And  Beauty  he  takes  to  his  cold  embrace. 

The  wind  and  the  waves  are  his  messengers  true, 

And  lost  is  the  wanderer  whom  they  pursue — 

They  sweep  the  shore,  they  plunder  the  wreck, 

His  stores  to  heap,  and  his  halls  to  deck. 

Ah !  lady  and  lover,  ye  are  doomed  their  prey — 

They  couv.  J  they  come ! — ye  are  swept  away ! 


THE  SEABIRD's  TALE.  161 

Ye  sink  in  the  tide — but  it  cannot  sever 
The  fond  ones  who  sleep  in  its  depths  forever ! 

Oh !  wild  was  the  storm,  and  loud  was  its  roar, 
And  strange  were  the  sights  that  I  hovered  o'er. 
I  saw  a  babe  with  its  mother  die, 
I  listened  to  catch  its  parting  sigh, 
And  I  laughed  to  see  the  black  billows  play 
With  the  sleeping  child  in  their  gambols  gay. 
I  saw  a  girl  whose  arms  were  white 
As  the  foam  that  danced  on  the  billows'  height, 
And  the  ripples  toyed  with  her  glossy  curls, 
And  her  cheek  was  kissed  by  the  wanton  whirls ; 
But  her  bosom  was  dead  to  hope  and  fear. 
For  she  shuddered  not  as  the  shark  came  near. 
I  poised  my  foot  on  the  forehead  fair 
Of  a  lovely  boy  that  floated  there — 
I  looked  in  the  eyes  of  the  drowning  brave. 
As  they  upward  gazed  through  the  fatal  wave — 
I  screamed  o'er  the  bubbles  that  told  of  death, 
And  stooped  as  the  last  gave  up  his  breath. 
I  flapped  my  wings,  for  the  work  was  done, 
The  storm  was  hushed,  and  the  golden  sun 
Sent  his  Ught  abroad  o'er  the  lulling  seas — 
And  I  teU  my  tale  to  the  whispering  breeze, 
Of  the  hidden  things  which  the  waves  conceal, 
And  the  seabird's  song  can  alone  reveaL 

14* 


1(52  THANKSGIVING. 

THANKSGIVING. 

BY   MRS.   LITTLE, 


It  is  thanksgivinjT  morn — 'tis  cold  and  clear: 
The  bells  for  church  ring  forth  a  merry  sound ; 
The  maidens,  in  their  gaudy  winter  gear, 
Rival  the  many-tinted  woods  aromid  ; 
The  rosy  children  skip  along  the  ground, 
Save  where  the  matron  reins  their  eager  pace, 
Pointing  to  him  who  with  a  look  profound 
Moves  with  his  '  people '  toward  the  sacred  place 
Where  duly  he  bestows  the  manna  crumbs  of  grace. 

Of  the  deep  learning  in  the  schools  of  yore 

The  reverend  pastor  hath  a  golden  stock  : 

Yet,  with  a  vain  display  of  useless  lore, 

Or  sapless  doctrine,  never  will  he  mock 

The  better  cravings  of  his  simple  flock  ; 

But  faithfully  their  humble  shepherd  guides 

Where  streams  eternal  gush  from  Calvary's  rock ; 

For  well  he  knows,  not  learning's  purest  tides 

Can  quench  the  immortal  thirst  that  in  the  soul  abides. 

The  anthem  swells ;  the  heart's  high  thanks  are  given; 
Then,  mildly  as  the  dews  on  Hcrmon  fall, 


THANKSGIVING.  163 

Begins  the  holv  minister  of  heaven. 

And  though  not  his  the  burning  zeal  of  Paul, 

Yet  a  persuasive  power  is  in  his  call ; 

So  earnest,  though  so  kindly,  is  his  mood, 

So  tenderly  he  longs  to  save  them  all, 

No  bird  more  fondly  flutters  o'er  her  brood, 

When  the  dark  vulture  screams  above  their  native  wood. 

^  For  all  his  bounties,  dearest  charge,"  he  cries, 

"  Your  hearts  are  the  best  thanks ;  no  more  refrain ; 

Your  yielded  hearts  he  asks  in  sacrifice. 

Almighty  Lover !  shalt  thou  love  in  vain ; 

And  vainly  woo  thy  wand'  rers  home  again  *? 

How  thy  soft  mercy  with  the  sinner  pleads ! 

Behold !  thy  harvest  loads  the  ample  plain ; 

And  the  same  goodness  lives  in  all  thy  deeds, 

From  the  least  drop  of  rain,  to  those  that  Jesus  bleeds." 

Much  more  he  spake,  with  growing  ardour  fired : 
Oh  that  my  lay  were  worthy  to  record 
The  moving  eloquence  his  theme  inspired ! 
For  like  a  free  and  copious  stream  outpour' d 
His  love  to  man  and  man's  indulgent  Lord. 
All  were  subdued  ;  the  stoutest,  sternest  men, 
Heart-melted,  hung  on  every  precious  word : 
And  as  he  uttered  forth  his  full  amen, 
A  thousand  mingling  sobs  re-echoed  it  again 


164  THANKSGIVING. 

Behold  that  ancient  house  on  yonder  lawn, 
Close  by  whose  rustic  porch  an  elm  is  seen : 
Lo  !  now  has  past  the  service  of  the  morn ; 
A  joyous  group  are  hastening  o'er  the  green, 
Led  by  an  aged  sire  of  gracious  mien, 
Whose  gay  descendants  all  are  met  to  hold 
Their  glad  thanksgiving  in  that  sylvan  scene. 
That  once  enclosed  them  in  one  happy  fold, 
Ere  waves  of  time  and  change  had  o'er  them  roU'd. 

The  hospitable  doors  are  open  thrown ; 
The  bright  wood-fire  burns  cheerly  in  the  hall ; 
And,  gathering  in,  a  busy  hum  makes  known 
The  spirit  of  free  mirth  that  moves  them  all. 
There,  a  youth  hears  a  lovely  cousin's  call, 
And  flies  alertly  to  unclasp  the  cloak ; 
And  she,  the  while,  with  merry  laugh  lets  fall 
Upon  his  awkwardness  some  lively  joke. 
Not  pitying  the  blush  her  bantering  has  woke. 

And  there  the  grandam  sits,  in  placid  ease, 
A  gentle  brightness  o'er  her  features  spread  : 
Her  children's  children  cluster  rovmd  her  knees. 
Or  on  her  bosom  fondly  rest  their  head. 
Oh,  happy  sight,  to  see  such  blossoms  shed 
Their  sweet  young  fragrance  o'er  such  aged  tree ! 
How  vain  to  say,  that,  when  short  youth  has  fled, 


THANKSGIVING.  165 

Our  dearest  of  enjoyments  cease  to  be, 

When  hoaiy  eld  is  loved  but  the  more  tenderly. 

And  there  the  manly  fanners  scan  the  news ; 

(Strong  is  their  sense,  though  plain  the  garb  it  wears,) 

Or  while  their  pipes  a  luUing  smoke  diffuse, 

They  look  important  from  their  elbow  chairs, 

And  gravely  ponder  on  the  nation's  cares. 

The  matrons  of  the  morning  sermon  speak, 

And  each  its  passing  excellence  declares ; 

While  tears  of  pious  raptmre,  pure  and  meek, 

Course  in  soft  beauty  down  the  christian  mother's  cheek. 

Then,  just  at  one,  the  full  thanksgiving  feast, 
Rich  with  the  bounties  of  the  closing  year, 
Is  spread ;  and,  from  the  greatest  to  the  least, 
All  crowd  the  table,  and  enjoy  the  cheer. 
The  list  of  dainties  will  not  now  appear ; 
Save  one  I  cannot  pass  unheeded  by. 
One  dish,  already  to  the  muses  dear. 
One  dish,  that  wakens  memory's  longing  sigh, 
The  genuine  far  famed  Yankee  pumpkin  pie. 

Who  e'er  has  seen  thee  in  thy  flaky  crust 
Display  the  yeUow  richness  of  thy  breast, 
But,  as  the  sight  awoke  his  keenest  gust. 
Has  own'd  thee  of  all  cates  the  choicest,  best? 


166  THANKSGIVING. 

Ambrosia  were  a  fool,  to  thee  compared, 

Even  by  the  rosy  hands  of  Hebe  drest : 

Thee,  pumpkin  pie,  by  country  maids  prepared, 

With  their  white  rounded  arms  above  the  elbow  bared. 

Now  to  the  kitchen  come  a  vacn-ant  train, 
The  plenteous  fragments  of  the  feast  to  share. 
The  old  lame  fidler  wakes  a  merry  strain, 
For  his  mull'd  cider  and  his  pleasant  fare, — 
Reclining  in  that  ancient  wicker  chair. 
A  vet'ran  soldier  he,  of  those  proud  times 
When  first  our  freedom's  banner  kiss'd  the  air : 
His  battles  oft  he  sings  in  untaught  rhymes, 
When  wakening  memory  his  aged  heart  sublimes. 

But  who  is  this,  whose  scarlet  cloak  has  known 

Full  oft  the  pelting  of  the  winter  storm  7 

Through  its  fringed  hood  a  strong  wild  face  is  shown, — 

Tall,  gaunt,  and  bent  with  years,  the  beldam's  form ; — 

There's  none  of  all  these  youth  with  vigour  warm, 

Who  dare  by  slightest  word  her  anger  stir. 

So  dark  the  frown  that  does  her  face  deform, 

That  half  the  frighted  villagers  aver 

The  very  de'il  himself  incarnate  is  in  her. 

Yet  now  the  sybil  wears  her  niildest  mood ; 
And  round  her  see  the  anxious  silent  band. 
Falls  from  her  straggling  locks  the  antique  hood, 


THANKSGIVING  167 

As  close  she  peers  in  that  fair  maiden's  hand, 
Who  scarce  the  strucrcrles  in  her  heart  can  stand ; — 
Affection's  strength  has  made  her  nature  weak  ; 
She  of  her  lovely  looks  hath  lost  command ; 
The  flecker'd  red  and  white  within  her  cheek — 
Oh,  all  her  love  it  doth  most  eloquently  speak ! 

Thy  doting  faith,  fond  maid,  may  envied  be, 

And  half  excused  the  superstitious  art. 

Now,  when  the  sybil's  mystic  words  to  thee 

The  happier  fortune's  of  thy  love  impart, 

ThrilUng  thy  soul  in  its  most  vital  part, 

How  does  the  throb  of  inward  ecstasy 

Send  the  luxuriant  blushes  from  thy  heart 

All  o'er  thy  varying  cheek,  like  some  clear  sea 

Where  the  red  morning-glow  falls  full  but  tremblingly! 

'Tis  evening;  and  the  rural  ball  begins: 

The  fairy  call  of  music  all  obey ; 

The  circles  round  domestic  hearths  grow  thin ;. 

All,  at  the  joyful  signal  hie  away 

To  yonder  hall  with  lights  and  garlands  gay. 

There,  with  elastic  step,  yoimg  belles  are  seen 

Entering,  all  conscious  of  their  coming  sway  : 

Not  oft  their  fancies  underrate,  I  ween, 

The  spoils  emd  glories  of  this  festal  scene. 

New-England's  daughters  need  not  envy  those 
Who  in  a  monarch's  court  their  jewels  wear; 


168  THANKSGIVING. 

More  lovely  they,  when  but  a  simple  rose 
Glows  through  the  golden  clusters  of  their  hair. 
Could  light  of  diamonds  make  her  look  more  fair» 
Who  moves  in  beauty  through  the  mazy  dance, 
With  buoyant  feet  that  seem  to  skim  the  air, 
And  eyes  that  speak,  in  each  impassioned  glance. 
The  poetry  of  youth,  love's  sweet  and  short  romance  1 

He  thinks  not  so,  that  young  enamour'd  boy 

Who  through  the  dance  her  graceful  steps  doth  guide, 

While  his  heart  swells  with  the  deep  pulse  of  joy. 

Oh,  no ;  by  nature  taught,  unlearnt  m  pride, 

He  sees  her  in  her  loveliness  array' d, 

All  blushing  for  the  love  she  cannot  hide  ; 

And  feels  that  gaudy  art  could  only  shade 

The  brightness  nature  gave  to  his  unrivall'd  maid. 

Gay  bands,  move  on ;  your  draught  of  pleasure  quaff; 

I  love  to  listen  to  your  joyous  din ; 

The  lad's  light  joke,  the  raaiden's  mellow  laugh; 

And  the  brisk  music  of  the  -siolin. 

How  bUthe  to  see  the  sprightly  dance  begin ! 

Entwining  hands,  they  seem  to  float  along, 

With  native  rustic  grace  that  well  might  win 

The  happiest  praises  of  a  sweeter  song. 

From  a  more  gifted  l3n"e  than  doth  to  me  belong. 

While  these  enjoy  th^j  mirth  that  suits  their  years, 
Round  their  home-fires  their  peaceful  elders  meet. 


THANKSGIVING.  169 

A  gentler  mirth  their  friendly  converse  cheers ; 
And  yet,  though  calm  their  pleasures,  they  are  sweet. 
Through  the  cold  shadows  of  the  autumn  day 
Oft  breaks  the  sunshine  with  as  genial  heat, 
As  o'er  the  soft  and  sapphire  skies  of  May, 
Though  nature  then  be  young  and  exquisitely  gay. 

On  the  white  wings  of  peace  their  days  have  flown; 
Nor  wholly  were  they  thralled  by  earthly  cares ; 
But  from  their  hearts  to  heaven's  paternal  throne 
Arose  the  daily  incense  of  their  prayers. 
And  now,  as  low  the  sun  of  being  wears, 
The  God  to  whom  their  morning  vov/s  wcro  paid. 
Each  orateful  offeriufj  in  remembrance  bears ; — 
And  cheering  beams  of  mercy  are  display'd, 
To  gild  with  heavenly  hopes  their  evening's  pensive  shade. 
But  now  farewell  to  thee,  thanksgiving  day ! 
Thou  angel  of  the  year !  one  bounteous  hand 
The  horn  of  deep  abundance  doth  display, 
Raining  its  rich  profusion  o'er  the  land ; 
The  other  arm  outstrctch'd  Vvith  gesture  grand, 
Pointing  its  upraised  finger  to  the  sky, 
Doth  the  warm  tribute  of  our  thanks  demand 
For  Him,  the  Father  God,  v»'ho  from  on  liigh 
Sheds  gleams  of  purest  joy  o'er  man's  dark  destiny. 

15 


170  COTTAGE    LEGEND. - 

COTTAGE  LEGEND. 


Between  yon  distant  hills  that  hide 
The  pathway  of  the  silver  Wye, 
A  bonny  cottage  maiden  lived. 
Of  raven  hair,  and  hazel  eye. 

And  glossy  was  that  raven  hai:^ 
And  soft  as  love  that  hazel  eye. 
And  mellow  as  the  far-off  lute, 
The  voice  of  Ellen  of  the  Wye. 

And  gallant  lovers  came  from  far. 
The  maiden's  heart  and  hand  to  gain. 
And  many  a  vow  and  many  a  sigh 
Wer^  breathed  in  Ellen's  ear  in  vain. 

'  I  love  my  cottage  home,'  she  said, 
'  This  little  glen — those  hills  so  blue — 
Yon  winding  stream — I  love  them  all — 
And  cannot  bid  my  sire  adieu.' 

But  young  Lord  Gower  came  to  the  glen, 
And  words  of  love  he  well  could  say, 
And  Ellen's  youthful  heart  he  won, 
And  bore  her  from  her  home  away 


COTTAGE    LEGEND.  171 

Ay,  Ellen  left  her  cottage  home ; 
To  that  sweet  glen,  those  hills  so  blue, 
That  winding  stream,  she  said  farew^ell, 
And  bade  her  aged  sire  adieu ! 

And  years  passed  by — and  she  forgot 
Them  all,  till  bitter  sorrows  pressed ; 
And  then  the  scenes  of  youth  came  back 
In  memory's  fondest  colours  dressed. 

Her  tears  fell  fast — and  soon  she  rose 
To  seek  her  cottage  home  once  more — 
But  ah !  'twas  winter  now.  and  fierce, 
The  cold  blast  swept  the  valley  o'er. 

Poor  wanderer !  when  she  left  the  vale, 
The  hills  were  green,  the  flowers  were  gay, 
The  birds  sang  sweet  from  every  tree. 
And  her  young  heart  was  bUthe  as  they. 

But  now  beneath  white  winter's  shroud, 
Soft  summer  and  its  flowers  he  dead — 
And  all  the  gladsome  birds  are  gone, 
And  Ellen's  joys,  Hke  them,  are  fled ! 

She  rcach'd,  at  length,  her  father's  door — 
Twas  shut,  and  all  was  still  around ; 


172  TO   THE   SENTIMENTAL. 

But  near,  lay  hushed  in  death's  repose, 
Her  father  on  the  frozen  ground  ! 

With  age  and  sorrow  overborne, 
He  fell  upon  the  earth  and  died ; 
None  saw  him  die — ^his  daughter  gone— 
But  one  brute  friend  was  by  his  side. 

Poor  Ellen  now  went  wild — her  mind 
^  Was  wrecked  by  this  last  fearful  stroke — 

Her  heart,  by  wrong  and  ruin  tried, 
Parted,  and  was  forever  broke ! 

What  said  Lord  Gower  7  On  Christmas  eve 
He  made  a  lady  fair  his  bride, 
And  his  high  hall  rang  loud  with  mirth  ; 
That  night  the  cottage  maiden  died. 


TO  THE  SENTIMENT  AT.. 


"  What  is  Friendship  but  a  name !" 

I  TELL  not  my  tale  to  a  cold  and  careless  world. 
I  waste  not  sighs  upon  ears  that  are  deaf.  A 
story  of  misfortune  is  a  pearl  too  precious  to  be 


TO   THE   SENTIMENTAL.  173 

cast  fefoic  those  who  would  only  trample  upon 
it.  ii  is  for  the  tender  and  sympathetic  ear  of 
those  whom  experience  has  taught  to  contrast  the 
bliss  of  friendship,  indulged  without  suspicion  or 
alloy,  with  the  bitterness  of  disappointed  trust 
and  betrayed  affection. 

I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  both  my  parents 
at  an  early  age.  My  mother  died  when  I  was  a 
boy,  and  my  father  followed  her  soon  after  I  en- 
tered my  twenty-first  year.  I  was  an  only  child, 
and  without  relatives  ;  but  my  father  committed 
me  to  the  care  of  a  friend  by  the  name  of  Plum, 
of  whom  he  had  a  high  opinion,  and  to  whom  he 
was  fondly  attached.  Whether  my  father's  choice 
of  a  guardian  for  one  whose  imagination  was 
stronger  than  his  judgement,  and  whose  passions 
were  more  active  than  his  principles,  was  wise  or 
not,  is  a  question  which  I  leave  to  be  decided  by 
the  issue  of  my  story. 

The  stern  and  strict  control  of  my  father  was 
no  sooner  withdraAvn,  than  I  felt  like  a  liberated 
bird.  I  indulged  my  fancy  in  every  thing.  I 
bought  gay  horses,  drove  dashing  gigs,  smoked, 
drank,  flourished  at  Nahant  and  Saratoga,  put  a 
gold  chain  about  my  neck,  with  a  useless  quiz- 
zing glass  attached  U)  it,  and  thrust  into  my  waist- 

15* 


174  TO   THE   SENTIMENTAL. 

coat  pocket,  criticised  the  ladies'  ancles,  talked 
lightly  of  female  virtue,  and  impudently  ogled 
every  woman  whom  I  met. 

I  was  perhaps  less  to  be  blamed  for  these  follies, 
as  I  followed  the  fashion  of  young  men  of  my 
condition,  and  was  rather  abetted  than  restrained 
in  my  course  by  my  guardian.  At  length  I  fell 
in  love,  and  my  taste  became  matrimonial.  I 
worshipped  a  pretty  girl  of  sixteen,  and  promised 
to  marry  her.  But  time  and  reflection  altered  my 
views.  My  goddess  became  an  insipid  girl.  To 
put  an  end  to  my  engagement,  I  suddenly  em- 
barked for  Europe,  giving  it  forth  to  be  under- 
stood that  I  should  be  absent  several  years.  My 
reputation  would  have  suffered  for  this  and  some 
other  trifles,  had  not  my  friend  Plum  exerted  his 
influence  in  my  behalf,  which  he  did  so  effectual- 
ly, that  I  was  fully  acquitted,  and  the  young  lady 
was  left  to  unpitied  mortification  and  contempt. 

I  could  not  think  of  travelling  alone,  so  I 
managed  to  have  my  guardian  accompany  me. 
On  my  arrival  at  Liverpool,  my  ignorance  of  the 
manners  and  customs  of  England  brought  me 
into  sundry  awkward  situations.  In  these  cases  I 
found  the  assistance  of  Plum  to  be  invaluable. 
He  settled  every  difficulty  in  a  moment,  and  al- 


TO   THE   SENTIMENTAL.  175 

ways  in  a  way  peculiar  to  himself.  He  seemed 
to  understand  England  perfectly,  and  I  after- 
wards learnt  that  he  was  not  a  stranger  to  other 
countries.  I  soon  hurried  to  London.  I  was 
anxious  to  participate  in  the  pleasures  of  the 
world's  metropolis.  The  influence  of  Plum  soon 
gained  me  admission  into  fashionable  society.  It 
was  winter,  and  I  was  invited  to  an  assembly  at 
Almack's.  My  acquaintance  enlarged,  and  I  was 
soon  in  the  full  career  of  fashionable  dissipation. 
My  society  was  sought  by  gentlemen  and  ladies 
of  the  first  degree.  Not  a  few  cards  with  noble 
names  upon  them  were  exhibited  in  my  rack. 

I  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  my  success.  My 
vanity  could  not  persuade  me  to  impute  it  all  to 
my  person  and  address.  I  became  inquisitive, 
and  learned  at  length,  to  my  great  surprise,  that 
it  was  mainly  on  account  of  my  guardian,  who 
was  held  in  such  estimation,  that  all  who  were 
connected  with  him  participated  in  his  honours. 
At  first  I  was  piqued  by  the  discovery,  but  such  is 
the  influence  of  self-flattery,  and  such  also  was 
the  adroit  manner  and  seeming  sincerity  of  the  at- 
tentions I  received,  that  I  ceased  to  scrutinize  the 
motive,  and  took  them  as  if  offered  to  me  on  the 
ground  of  personal  merit. 


176  TO    THE    SENTIMENTAL. 

But,  if  I  was  blinded  in  regard   to  the  honour 
which  was  reflected  on  myself,  some  remarkable 
instances  of  its  influence  on  others  did  not  escape 
me.     I  recollect  on  one  occasion  to  have  been 
struck  with  it  at  Almack's.    In  general,  the  dis- 
play of  beauty  there  is  beyond  all  praise.     An 
American  would  say  the  ladies  were  too  stout  and 
ruddy,  and  too  heavily  dressed.  But  let  that  pass. 
The  music  had  ceased  for  a   moment,  and  the 
places  where  the  quadrilles  had  a  moment  before 
been  figuring,  were  accidentally  vacant.     There 
then  appeared  a  couple  so  gi'otesque  as  to  put  de- 
scription to  the  blush.     A  thin,  miserly,   snuffy 
little  man,  led  forward  the  hugest  woman  I  ever 
beheld.    She  had  large,  lead  coloured  eyes,  a  low, 
overhanging  forehead,  a  conical  piece  of  her  un- 
derlip  lapping  over  her  upper  one,  the  corners  of 
the  mouth  drawn  downward,  long  ears  standing 
apart  from  the  head,  a  large  jowl,  and  a  figure 
that,  in  despite  of  the  London  Cantellos,  resem- 
bled a  pipe  of  brandy.     There  was  a  mark  of 
monstrous  vulgarity  about  the  pair  that,  with  now 
and  then  an  exception,  seemed  to  contrast  strange- 
ly with  all  around  them. 

At  the  first  appearance  of  this  strange  couple, 
there  was  a  look  of  general  surprise,  and  then  a 


TO    THE    SENTIMENTAL.  177 

siiiile,  and  here  and  there  an  audible  titter.     Bu4 
soon  it  was  all  hushed,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fud^ 
seemed  to  be  honoured  with  particular  and  re 
spectful  attention.  "  How  is  this  ?"  said  I  to  Ladj 
Flambeau.     "  Oh,"  said  she,  "  don't  you  knov 
he  is  a  great  favourite  with  your  friend  Plum  ?" 

In  short,  I  had  not  spent  six  months  in  England, 
before  I  discovered  that  my  extraordinary  guar- 
dian had  scarcely  less  influence  than  the  prime 
minister.  Indeed,  he  did  that  which  the  king 
himself  could  not  have  performed.  The  world 
would  laugh  at  Sir  William  Curtis,  though  George 
the  Fourth  was  his  companion  and  friend.  But 
who  could  despise  a  favourite  of  Plum  ?  His 
friendship  was  only  inferior  to  a  patent  of  nobili- 
ty. It  covered  faults  and  magnified  virtues.  It 
even  became  superior  to  the  force  of  nature.  I 
once  saw  a  very  ugly  young  woman  dancing  most 
vilely.  "  She  is  an  angel,"  said  one.  "  She  dances 
like  a  fairy,"  said  another.  "  She  is  the  particu- 
lar friend  of  Plum,"  said  a  third. 

I  left  England  and  went  to  France.  In  Paris, 
my  guardian  seemed  less  at  home.  But  here  he 
was  by  no  means  destitute  of  influence.  He  could 
persuade  a  Frenchman  to  do  any  thing  but  jump 
into  the  Seine. 


178  TO   THE    SENTIMENTAL. 

I  set  out  for  Italy.  In  crossing  the  Alps,  I  was 
attacked  by  banditti.  I  fought  valiantly,  but  in 
vain.  I  was  wounded,  overpowered,  and  beat 
down.  A  swarthy  villain,  with  black  mustachios, 
planted  his  heavy  foot  on  my  breast,  and  with  his 
brawny  arm  held  his  finger  on  the  trigger  of  a 
pistol  presented  to  my  forehead.  The  slightest 
contraction  of  a  muscle  had  scattered  my  brain 
in  the  air.  At  this  instant  luckily  Plum  present- 
ed himself.  He  went  on  the  principle  that  dis- 
cretion is  the  better  part  of  valour.  He  threw  away 
my  powder  and  ball,  and  settled  the  point  by  ne- 
gotiation. It  was  all  over  in  fifteen  minutes.  The 
desperado  became  our  friend,  guided  us  faithfully 
over  the  mountain,  and  at  parting  gave  me  warm 
wishes  of  happiness. 

I  could  lell  other  tales,  but  this  is  enough.  I 
returned  to  my  country  after  an  absence  of  two 
years,  bringing  my  fri-end  vrith  me.  His  influence 
was  not  abated.  The  men  sought  my  society,  and 
the  ladies  smiled  upon  me  for  his  sake.  I  took  it 
all  to  myself,  indeed,  and  when  an  honest  man  told 
me  that  I  was  a  fool  for  doing  so,  I  became  angry, 
and  bade  him  hold  his  peace.  I  again  fell  in  love. 
I  had  a  streak  of  weakness  in  my  cliaracter, 
whkh  exposed  me  to  such  fantasies.     I  loved  de- 


TO   THE   SENTIMENTAL.  179 

votedly,  and  thought  my  passion  was  tmly  re- 
turned. "  May  I  speak  my  mind  freely  to  j'ou  ?" 
said  a  candid  friend.  "  Certainly,"  said  I.  "  The 
lady  does  not  love  you,"  said  he.  "  You  are  mis- 
taken," said  I.  "  It  is  not  you,  but  your  friend  Plum, 
that  she  is  enamoured  with ;  it  is  only  to  secure  his 
society,  that  she  seems  to  favour  you."  "  She  is  in- 
capable of  such  double  dealing,"  said  I.  "  It  is  the 
fashion  of  the  world,"  said  he.  "  Plum  is  a  great 
favourite  of  the  sex,  and  they  will  smile  on  the  first 
man  that  brings  them  closest  to  him.  You  are  his 
particular  friend,  and  are  therefore  an  object  of 
regard  to  all  the  calculating  mothers  and  daugh- 
ters in  town."  I  felt  too  secure  to  be  angry.  I 
laughed  at  my  friend,  and  turned  his  advice  to  ri- 
dicule. 

But  let  me  proceed  in  my  story.  A  meddhng 
attorney  endeavoured  to  bring  about  a  separation 
betAveen  me  and  Plum.  He  was  at  first  unsuccess- 
ful, but  by  trick  and  artifice  he  at  length  gained 
his  point.  Plum  deserted  me  for  ever.  I  mourn- 
ed over  him,  "  but  mourning,"  said  I,  "  is  vain. 
I  am  myself  the  same  thing  as  before.  I  have 
lost  a  friend,  but  that  is  no  part  of  myself."  I  flew 
to  my  mistress.  "  She  will  sympathize  with  me," 
thought  I,  "  and  oh,  there  would  be  a  sweetness  in 


180  TO  THE  SENTIMENTAL. 

seeing  her  tears  fall  for  my  sake,  that  would  atone 
for  my  loss."  But  I  was  mistaken.  She  refused 
to  see  me.  I  was  enraged.  I  stamped  on  the 
floor.  The  servant  laughed,  and  pointed  to  the 
door.  I  went  away,  and  ^vept  in  the  bitterness  of 
my  heart  like  a  very  boy.  I  went  to  see  some  of 
my  companions.  They  were  cold  and  constrain- 
ed. I  visited  some  of  the  families  where  I  was 
once  a  favourite.  They  were  civil,  but  the  hearty 
welcome  of  the  mother,  and  the  gracious  atten- 
tions of  the  daughters,  were  mine  no  more. 

I  shrunk  from  society  like  a  wounded  beast  of 
prey,  who  alone  in  his  lair  endures  his  throbbing 
pain.  I  cursed  the  heartless  world,  and  bitterly 
moralized  on  the  selfishness  of  those  I  had  thought 
the  fairest  and  noblest  part  of  creation.  I  am  stiU 
writhing  with  disappointment,  and  under  its  in- 
fluence address  this  letter,  partly  to  give  vent  to 
my  gushing  feelings,  and  partly  to  obtain  the 
sympathy  of  those  who  have  sympathy  to  bestow 
on  the  forlorn. 

RIDDLE. 

P.  S.  I  warn  all  the  world  against  placing 
confidence  in  the  hollow-hearted  treacherous  fel- 
low whom  I  once  called  my  friend.    His  name  in 


A  MOONLIGHT  ADVENTURE.  181 

this  narrative  is  Pluni,  but  he  is  better  known  by 
the  title,  Cash, 


A  MOONLIGHT  ADVENTURE. 


"  How  beautiful  is  night !" 


D 


A  FEW  years  ago,  in  the  course  of  a  pedestrian 
tour  along  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  I  stopped  for 
the  night  at  a  little  tavern  situated  near  the  river. 
It  was  a  wild  spot,  and  surrounded  with  a  thick 
copse  of  low  oak  trees.  In  the  course  of  the  even- 
ing I  was  induced  to  take  a  stroll,  the  air  being 
pleasant,  and  the  moon  sending  a  flood  of  hght 
over  the  landscape. 

I  left  the  travelled  road,  and  entered  the  forest 
At  length  I  fell  into  a  little  footpath,  along  which 
I  walked  without  marking  the  distance,  or  the 
direction  of  my  ramble.  By  and  by  I  came  to  a 
cottage,  but  the  door  was  shut,  and  I  continued 
my  walk.  I  now  emerged  from  the  forest,  and 
the  footpath  led  me  along  a  high  bank  which  over- 
hung the  river.  Its  broad  surface  was  smooth 
and  glassy,  and  it  flowed  on  so  quietly,  that  the 

IG 


182  A  MOONLIGHT  ADVENTURE. 

image  of  the  moon  seemed  as  firmly  set  in  its 
waters,  as  did  the  planet  itself  in  the  sky. 

I  still  went  on,  filled  with  the  beauty  of  the 
night  and  the  sweet  serenity  of  nature  around  me. 
A  thousand  delightful  dreams  passed  through  my 
imagination,  each  touching  my  heart  with  some 
correspondent  emotion.  Suddenly  my  ear  was 
filled  with  the  sweetest  music.  It  was  the  voice 
of  a  woman ;  and  at  a  little  distance  I  saw  a  female 
form  standing  on  the  brink  of  the  river.  She 
leaned  toward  the  water,  and  apparently  uncon- 
scious that  a  listener  was  near,  she  poured  her 
melody  over  its  bosom.  I  fancied  that  its  current 
flowed  smoother,  and  that  its  ripples  whispered 
with  a  softer  cadence,  as  if  listening  to  the  sound. 
The  breathing  melody  of  the  voice  I  cannot  give 
the  words  were  as  follows : 

SONG. 

Oh !   swiftly  flows  the  stream, 
Its  waters  will  not  stay, 
They  glide  like  pleasure's  dream, 
Away,  away. 

The  laughing  ripples  flash 
With  many  a  silver  ray, 


r 
I. 

i 


A  MOONLIGHT  ADVENTURE.  183 

But  light  as  love  they  dash 
Away,  away. 

The  eddies,  clear  as  glass, 
Like  lingering  lovers  play, 
But  soon  like  lovers  pass 
Away,  away. 

But  other  waves  as  bright 
Along  these  banks  will  stray, 
Then  let  them  speed  their  flight 
Away,  away. 

My  imagination  was  wrought  to  the  highest 
pitch.  The  outline  of  the  fair  one's  figure,  as  I 
traced  it  on  the  face  of  the  moonlit  water,  seemed 
beautiful  as  the  matchless  marble  of  the  Venus  de 
Medici.  The  words  of  the  poet  were  in  my  mind, 
and  they  broke  from  my  lips. 

Oh !  ne'er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 
A  Nymph,  a  Naiad,  or  a  Grace, 
Of  fairer  form,  or  lovelier  face. 

My  voice  had  broken  the  holy  silence  that 
reigned  over  the  scene.     The  fair  one  started 


"4**^ 


184  THE   LONE   INDIAN. 

she  turned  her  face  suddenly  round  upon  me. 
Good  heavens !  it  was  black  I 


THE  LONE  INDIAN. 

BY  THE   AUTHOR   OF   HOBOMOK. 


"A  white  man,  gazing  on  the  scene, 

Would  say  a  lovely  spot  was  here. 

And  praise  the  lawns  so  fresh  and  green, 

Between  the  hills  so  sheer. 

I  like  it  not — ^I  would  the  plain 

Lay  in  its  tall  old  groves  again."  Bryant. 

PowoxTONAMO  was  the  son  of  a  mighty  chief. 
He  looked  on  his  tribe  with  such  a  fiery  glance, 
that  they  called  him  the  Eagle  of  the  Mohawks. 
His  ej^e  never  blinked  in  the  sunbeam ;  and  he 
eaped  along  the  chase  like  the  untiring  waves  of 
Niagara.  Even  when  a  little  boy,  his  tiny  arrow 
would  hit  the  frisking  squirrel  in  the  ear,  and 
bring  down  the  humming  bird  on  her  rapid  wing. 
He  was  his  father's  pride  and  joy.  He  loved  to 
toss  him  high  in  his  sinewy  arms,  and  shout, 
"  Look,  Eagle-ej^e,  look,  and  see  the  big  hunting 
grounds  of  the  Mohav%'ks  !  Powontonamo  will  be 


C    C  i    c 

•  c  c  c 


c  c  c  * 


c  c    *  t 
c  ^  c  & 


'  c  « 

c   c  c   t 


t  o  • 
«  <  •  » 

t    <  €    c 

t  c  c  c 


THE    LONE    rXDIAN.  185 

their  chief.  The  winds  will  tell  his  brave  deeds. 
When  men  speak  of  him,  they  will  not  speak 
loud ;  but  as  if  the  Great  Spirit  had  breathed  in 
thunder." 

The  prophecy  was  fulfilled.  When  Powonto- 
namo  became  a  man,  the  fame  of  his  beauty  and 
courage  reached  the  tribes  of  Illinois ;  and  even 
the  distant  Osage  showed  his  white  teeth  with  de- 
light, when  he  heard  the  wild  deeds  of  the  Mo- 
hawk Eagle.  Yet  was  his  spirit  frank,  chivalrous, 
and  kind.  When  the  white  men  came  to  buy  land, 
he  met  them  with  an  open  palm,  and  spread  his 
buffalo  for  the  traveller.  The  old  chiefs  loved  the 
bold  youth,  and  offered  their  daughters  in  mar- 
riage. The  eyes  of  the  young  Indian  girls  spark- 
ted  when  he  looked  on  them.  But  he  treated 
them  all  with  the  stern  indifference  of  a  warrior, 
until  he  saw  Soonseetah  raise  her  long,  dark  eye- 
lash. Then  his  heart  melted  beneath  the  beaming 
glance  of  beauty.  Soonseetah  was  the  fairest  of 
the  Oneidas.  The  young  men  of  her  tribe  called 
her  the  Sunny-eye.  She  was  smaller  than  her 
nation  usually  are ;  and  her  slight,  graceful  figure, 
was  so  elastic  in  its  motions,  that  the  tall  grass 
would  rise  up  and  shake  off  its  dew  drops  after 
her  pretty  moccasins  had  pressed  it.     Many  a  fa- 

16* 


186  THE   LONE   INDIAN. 

moiis  chief  had  sought  her  love ;  but  when  they 
brought  the  choicest  furs,  she  would  smile  dis- 
dainfuUy,  and  say,  "  Soonseetah's  foot  is  warm. 
Has  not  her  father  an  arrow  ?"  When  they  of- 
fered her  food,  according  to  the  Indian  custom, 
her  answer  was,  "  Soonseetah  has  not  seen  all 
the  warriors.  She  will  eat  with  the  bravest."  The 
hunters  told  the  young  Eagle,  that  Sunny-eye 
of  Oneida  was  beautiful  as  the  bright  birds  in  the 
hunting  land  beyond  the  sky ;  but  that  her  heart 
was  proud,  and  she  said  the  great  chiefs  were  not 
good  enough  to  dress  venison  for  her.  When 
Powontonamo  listened  to  these  accounts,  his  lip 
would  curl  slightly,  as  he  threw  back  his  fur-edged 
mantle,  and  placed  his  firm,  springy  foot  forward, 
so  that  the  beads  and  sheUs  of  his  rich  moccasin 
might  be  seen  to  vibrate  at  every  sound  of  his  tre- 
mendous M'ar  song.  If  there  was  vanity  in  the 
act,  there  was  likewise  becoming  pride.  Soonsee- 
tah heard  of  his  haughty  smile,  and  resolved  in 
her  own  heart  that  no  Oneida  should  sit  beside 
her  till  she  had  seen  the  chieftain  of  the  ^lohawks. 
Before  many  moons  had  passed  away,  he  sought 
her  father's  wigwam,  to  carry  delicate  furs  and 
shining  shells  to  the  young  coquette  of  the  wil- 
derness.    She  did  not  raise  her  bright,  melting 


THE    LONE    INDIAN.  187 

eye  to  his,  when  he  came  near ;  but  when  he 
said,  "  Will  the  Sunny-eye  look  on  the  gifts  of  a 
Mohawk?  his  barbed  arrow  is  swift;  his  foot  ne- 
ver turned  from  the  foe ;"  the  colour  on  her  brown 
cheek  was  glowing  as  an  autumnal  twilight.  Her 
voice  was  like  the  troubled  note  of  the  wren,  as 
she  answered,  "  The  furs  of  Powontonamo  are 
soft  and  warm  to  the  foot  of  Soonseetah.  She  will 
weave  the  shells  in  the  wampum  belt  of  the  Mo- 
hawk Eagle."  The  exulting  lover  sat  by  her  side, 
and  offered  her  venison  and  parched  corn.  She 
raised  her  timid  eye,  as  she  tasted  the  food,  and 
then  the  young  Eagle  knew  that  Sunny-eye 
would  be  his  wife. 

There  was  feasting  and  dancing,  and  the  mar- 
riage song  rang  merrily  in  Mohawk  cabins,  when 
the  Oneida  came  among  them.  Powontonamo 
loved  her  as  his  own  heart's  blood.  He  delighted 
to  bring  her  the  fattest  deers  of  the  forest,  and 
load  her  with  the  ribbons  and  beads  of  the  En- 
glish. The  propliets  of  his  people  liked  it  not 
that  the  strangers  grew  so  numerous  in  the  land. 
They  shook  their  heads  mournfully,  and  said, 
"  The  moose  and  the  beaver  will  not  live  within 
sound  of  the  white  man's  gun.  They  will  go  be- 
yond the  lakes,  and  the  Indians  must  follow  their 


188  THE    LONE    IXDIAN. 

trail."  But  the  young  chief  laughed  them  U 
scorn.  He  said,  "  The  land  is  very  big.  The 
mountain  eagle  could  not  ^y  over  it  in  many  days 
Surely  the  wigwams  of  the  English  will  nevei 
cover  it."  Yet  when  he  held  his  son  in  his  arms,  as 
his  father  had  done  before  him,  he  sighed  to  heai 
the  strokes  of  the  axe  levelling  the  old  trees  of  his 
woods.  Sometimes  he  looked  sorrowfully  on  his 
baby  boy,  and  thought  he  had  perchance  done 
him  much  wrong,  when  he  smoked  a  pipe  in  the 
wigwam  of  the  stranger. 

One  day  he  left  his  home  before  the  gray  mist 
of  morning  had  gone  from  the  hills,  to  seek  food 
for  his  wife  and  child.  The  polar  star  was  bright 
in  the  heavens  ere  he  returned ;  yet  his  hands 
were  empty.  The  white  man's  gun  had  scared 
the  beasts  of  the  forest,  and  the  arrow  of  the  In- 
dian was  sharpened  in  vain.  Powontonamo  en- 
tered his  wigwam  with  a  cloudy  brow.  He  did 
not  look  at  Soonseetah  ;  he  did  not  speak  to  her 
boy ;  but  silent  and  sullen,  he  sat  leaning  on  the 
head  of  his  arrow.  He  wept  not,  for  an  Indian 
I  .  may  not  weep ;  but  the   muscles  of  his  face  be- 

trayed the  struggle  within  his  soul.  The  Sunny- 
eye  approached  fearfully,  and  laid  her  little  hand 
upon  his  brawny  shoulder,  as  she  asked,    "Why 


THE   LONE    INDIAN.  189 

is  the  Eagle's  eye  on  the  earth  ?  What  has  Soon- 
seetah  done,  that  her  child  dare  not  look  in  the 
face  of  his  father  ?"  Slowly  the  warrior  turned 
his  gaze  upon  her.  The  expression  of  sadness 
deepened,  as  he  answered,  "  The  Eagle  has  taken 
a  snake  to  his  nest ;  how  can  his  young  sleep  in 
it?"  The  Indian  boy,  all  unconscious  of  the 
forebodings  which  stirred  his  father's  spirit, 
moved  to  his  side,  and  peeped  up  in  his  face  with 
a  mingled  expression  of  love  and  fear. 

The  heart  of  the  generous  savage  was  full, 
-even  to  bursting.  His  hand  trembled,  as  he 
placed  it  on  the  sleek,  black  hair  of  his  only  son. 
"  The  Great  Spirit  bless  thee ;  the  Great  Spirit 
bless  thee,  and  give  thee  back  the  hunting  ground 
of  the  Mohawk !"  he  exclaimed.  Then  folding 
him,  for  an  instant,  in  an  almost  crushing  em- 
brace, he  gave  him  to  his  mother,  and  darted  from 
the  wigwam. 

Two  hours  he  remained  in  the  open  air ;  but 
the  clear  breath  of  heaven  brought  no  relief  to 
his  noble  and  suffering  soul.  Wherever  he  look- 
ed abroad,  the  ravages  of  the  civilized  destroyer 
met  his  eye.  Where  were  the  trees,  under  which 
he  had  frolicked  in  infancy,  sported  in  boyhood, 
and  rested  after  the  fatigues  of  battle?    They 


190  THE   LONE    INDIAN. 

formed  the  English  boat,  or  lined  the  English 
dwelling.  Where  were  the  holy  sacrifice-heaps 
of  his  people?  The  stones  were  taken  to  fence 
in  the  land,  which  the  intruder  dared  to  call  his 
o^\^l.  Where  was  his  father's  grave  ?  The  stran- 
ger's road  passed  over  it,  and  his  cattle  trampled 
on  the  ground  where  the  mighty  Mohawk  slum- 
bered. "V\Tiere  were  his  once  powerful  tribe? 
Alas,  in  the  white  man's  wars  they  had  joined 
Avith  the  British,  in  the  vain  hope  of  recovering 
their  lost  privileges.  Hundreds  had  gone  to  their 
last  home ;  others  had  joined  distant  tribes ;  and 
some  pitiful  ^^Tetches,  whom  he  scorned  to  call 
brothers,  consented  to  live  on  the  white  man's 
bounty.  These  were  corroding  reflections  ;  and 
well  might  fierce  thoughts  of  vengeance  pass 
through  the  mind  of  the  deserted  prince  ;  but  he 
was  powerless  now ;  and  the  Enghsh  swarmed, 
like  vultures  around  the  dying.  "  It  is  the  work 
of  the  Great  Spirit,"  said  he.  "The  Englishman's 
God  made  the  Indian's  heart  afraid ;  and  now  he 
is  like  a  wounded  buflfalo,  when  hungry  wolves 
are  on  his  trail." 

When  Powontonamo  returned  to  his  hut,  his 
countenance,  though  severe,  was  composed.  He 
spoke  to  the  Sunny-eye  with  more  kindness  than 


THE    LONE    INDIAN.  191 

the  savage  generally  addresses  the  wife  of  his 
youth ;  but  his  look  told  her  that  she  must  not 
ask  the  grief  which  had  put  a  woman's  heart 
within  the  breast  of  the  far-famed  Mohawk 
Eagle. 

The  next  day,  when  the  young  chieftain  went  out 
on  a  hunting  expedition,  he  was  accosted  by  a 
rough,  square-built  farmer.  "  Powow,"  said  he, 
"  your  squaw  has  been  stripping  a  dozen  of  my 
trees,  and  I  don't  like  it  over  much."  It  was  a 
moment  when  the  Indian  could  ill  brook  a  white 
man's  insolence.  "  Listen,  Buffalo-head  !"  shout- 
ed he ;  and  as  he  spoke  he  seized  the  shaggy  pate 
of  the  unconscious  offender,  and  eyed  him  with 
the  concentrated  venom  of  an  ambushed  rattle 
snake,—"  Listen  to  the  chief  of  the  Mohawks ! 
These  broad  lands  are  all  his  own.  When  the 
white  man  first  left  his  cursed  foot-print  in  the 
forest,  the  Great  Bear  looked  down  upon  the  big 
tribes  of  Iroquois  and  Abnaquis.  The  wigwams 
of  the  noble  Delawares  were  thick,  where  the 
soft  winds  dwell.  The  rising  sun  glanced  on  the 
fierce  Pequods;  and  the  Illinois,  the  Miamies, 
and  warlike  tribes  like  the  hairs  of  your  head, 
marked  his  going  down.  Had  the  red  man  struck 
ye  then,  your  tribes  would  have  been  as  dry  grass 


192  THE  LONE  INDIAN. 

to  the  lightning !  Go— shall  the  Sunny-eye  of 
Oneida  ask  the  pale  face  for  a  basket?"  He 
breathed  out  a  quick,  convulsive  laugh,  and  his 
white  teeth  showed  through  his  parted  lips,  as  he 
shook  the  farmer  from  him,  with  the  strength  and 
fury  of  a  ragmg  panther. 

After  that  his  path  was  unmolested,  for  no  one 
dared  to  awaken  his  wrath ;  but  a  smile  never 
again  visited  the  dark  countenance  of  the  degraded 
chief.  The  wild  beasts  had  fled  so  far  from  the 
settlements,  that  he  would  hunt  days  and  days 
without  success.  Soonseetah  sometimes  begged 
him  to  join  the  remnant  of  the  Oneidas,  and  per- 
suade them  to  go  far  off,  toward  the  setting  sun. 
Powontonamo  replied,  "  This  is  the  burial  place 
of  my  fathers ;"  and  the  Sunny-eye  dared  say  nd 
more. 

At  last  their  boy  sickened  and  died,  of  a  fever 
he  had  taken  among  the  English.  They  buried 
him  beneath  a  spreading  oak,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Mohawk,  and  heaped  stones  upon  his  grave, 
without  a  tear.  "  He  must  lie  near  the  water," 
said  the  desolate  chief,  "else  the  white  man's 
horses  will  tread  on  him." 

The  young  mother  did  not  Aveep ;  but  her  heart 
had  received  its  death  wound.    The  fever  seized 


THE  LONE  INDIAN.  193 

her,  and  she  grew  paler  and  weaker  every  day. 
One  morning  Powontonamo  returned  with  some 
delicate  food  he  had  been  seeking  for  her.  "  Will 
Sbonseetah  eat  ?"  said  he.  He  spoke  in  a  tone  of 
subdued  tenderness ;  but  she  answered  not.  The 
foot  which  was  wont  to  bound  forward  to  meet 
him,  lay  motionless  and  cold.  He  raised  the 
blanket  which  partly  concealed  her  face,  and  saw 
that  the  Sunny-eye  was  closed  in  death.  One 
hand  was  pressed  hard  against  her  heart,  as  if  her 
last  moments  had  been  painful.  The  other  grasp- 
ed the  beads  ^viiich  the  young  Eagle  had  given 
her  in  the  happy  days  of  courtship.  One  heart 
rending  shriek  was  wrung  from  the  bosom  of  the 
agonized  savage.  He  tossed  his  arms  wildly 
above  his  head,  and  threw  himself  beside  the  body 
of  her  he  had  loved  as  fondly,  deeply,  and  pas- 
sionately, as  ever  a  white  man  loved.  After  the 
first  burst  of  grief  had  subsided,  he  carefully  un- 
tied the  necklace  from  her  full,  beautiful  bosom, 
crossed  her  hands  over  the  sacred  relic,  and  put 
back  the  shining  black  hair  from  her  smooth  fore- 
head. For  hours  he  watched  the  corpse  in  si- 
lence. Then  he  arose  and  carried  it  from  the 
wigwam.  He  dug  a  grave  by  the  side  of  his  lost 
boy  J  laid  the  head  of  Soonseetah  toward  the  rising 

17 


194  THE  LONE  INDIAN. 

sun ;  heaped  the  earth  upon  it,  and  covered  it  with 
stones,  according  to  tlie  custom  of  his  people. 

Night  was  closing  in,  and  still  the  bereaved 
Mohawk  stood  at  the  grave  of  Sunny-eye,  as  mo- 
tionless as  its  cold  inmate.  A  white  man,  as  he 
passed,  paused,  and  looked  in  pity  on  him.  "  Are 
you  sick  ?"  asked  he.  "  Yes ;  me  sick.  JMe  very 
sick  here,"  answered  Powontonamo,  laying  his 
hand  upon  his  swelling  heart.  "Will  you  go 
home  ?"  "  Home !"  exclaimed  the  heart  broken 
chief,  in  tones  so  thrilling,  that  the  white  man 
started.  Then  slowly,  and  with  a  half  vacant 
look,  he  added,  "  Yes,  me  go  home.  By  and  by 
me  go  home."  Not  another  word  would  he  speak; 
and  the  white  man  left  him,  and  went  his  way. 
A  little  while  longer  he  stood  watching  the 
changing  heavens  ;  and  then,  with  reluctant  step, 
retired  to  his  solitary  wigwam. 

The  next  day,  a  tree,  Avhich  Soonseetah  had 
often  said  was  just  as  old  as  their  boy,  was  placed 
near  the  mother  and  child.  A  wild  vine  was 
straggling  among  the  loose  stones,  and  Powonto- 
namo carefully  twined  it  around  the  tree.  "  The 
young  oak  is  the  Eagle  of  the  Mohawks,"  he 
said ;  "  and  now  the  Sunny-eye  has  her  arms 
round  him."  He  spoke  in  the  wild  music  of  his 


THE  LONE  INDIAN.  195 

native  tongue ,  but  there  was  none  to  answer. 
"  Yes  ;  Powontonamo  will  go  home,"  sighed  he. 
"  He  will  go  where  the  sun  sets  in  the  ocean,  and 
the  white  man's  eyes  have  never  looked  upon  it." 
One  long,  one  lingering  glance  at  the  graves  of  his 
kindred,  and  the  Eagle  of  the  Mohawks  bade  fare- 
well to  the  land  of  his  fathers. 

******** 

For  many  a  returning  autumn,  a  lone  Indian 
was  seen  standing  at  the  consecrated  spot  we 
have  mentioned  ;  but  just  thirty  years  after  the 
death  of  Soonseetah,  he  was  noticed  for  the  last 
time.  His  step  was  then  firm,  and  his  figure  erect, 
though  he  seemed  old  and  way-worn.  Age  had  not 
dimmed  the  fire  of  his  eye,  but  an  expression  of 
deep  melancholy  had  settled  on  his  wrinkled 
brow.  It  was  Powontonamo — he  who  had  once 
been  the  Eagle  of  the  Mohawks  I  He  came  to 
lie  down  and  die  beneath  the  broad  oak,  which 
shadowed  the  grave  of  Sunny-eye.  Alas,  the 
white  man's  axe  had  been  there !  Tlie  tree  he 
had  planted  was  dead ;  and  the  vine,  which  had 
leaped  so  vigorously  from  branch  to  branch,  now, 
yellow  and  withering,  was  falling  to  the  ground. 
A  deep  groan  burst  from  the  soul  of  the  savage. 
For  thirty  wearisome  years,  he  had  watched  that 


196  THE  LONE  INDIAN. 

oak,  with  its  twining  tendrils.  They  were  the 
only  things  left  in  the  wide  world  for  him  to  love, 
and  they  were  gone !  He  looked  abroad.  The 
hunting  land  of  his  tribe  was  changed  like  its 
chieftain.  No  light  canoe  now  shot  down  the 
river,  like  a  bird  upon  the  wing.  The  laden  boat 
of  the  white  man  alone  broke  its  smooth  surface. 
The  Englishman's  road  wound,  like  a  serpent, 
around  the  banks  of  the  Mohawk ;  and  iron  hoofs 
had  so  beaten  do\\'n  the  war  path,  that  a  hawk's 
eye  could  not  discover  an  Indian  track.  The  last 
wigwam  was  destroyed;  and  the  sun  looked 
boldly  down  upon  spots  he  had  visited  only  by 
stealth,  during  thousands  and  thousands  of  moons. 
The  few  remaining  trees,  clothed  in  the  fantastic 
mourning  of  autumn ;  the  long  line  of  heavy 
clouds,  melting  away  before  the  coming  sun  ;  and 
the  distant  mountain  seen  through  the  blue  mist 
of  departing  twilight,  alone  remained  as  he  had 
seen  them  in  his  boyhood.  All  things  spoke  a  sad 
language  to  the  heart  of  the  desolate  Indian. 
"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  the  young  oak  and  the  vine  are 
like  the  Eagle  and  the  Sunny-eye.  They  are  cut 
down,  torn,  and  trampled  on.  The  leaves  are 
falling,  and  the  clouds  are  scattering,  like  my  peo- 
ple.    I  wish  I  could  once  more  see  the  trees 


THE  LONE  INDIAN.  197 

Standing  thick,  as  tliey  did  when  my  mother  held 
me  to  her  bosom,  and  sung  the  warhke  deeds  of 
the  Mohawks." 

A  mingled  expression  of  grief  and  anger  passed 
-over  his  face,  as  he  watched  a  loaded  boat  in  its 
passage  across  the  stream.  "  The  M'hite  man 
carries  food  to  his  wife  and  children,  and  he  finds 
them  in  his  home,"  said  he.  "  Where  is  the  squaw 
and  the  papoose  of  the  red  man  ?  They  are 
here  !"  As  he  spoke,  he  fixed  his  eye  thought- 
fully upon  the  grave.  After  a  gloomy  silence,  he 
again  looked  round  upon  the  fair  scene,  with  a 
wandering  and  troubled  gaze.  "  The  pale  face 
may  like  it,"  murmured  he;  "but  an  Indian 
cannot  die  here  in  peace."  So  saying,  he  broke 
his  bow  string,  snapped  his  arrows,  threw  them 
on  the  burial  place  of  his  fathers,  and  departed  for 

ever. 

******** 

None  ever  knew  where  Powontonamo  laid  his 
dying  head.  The  hunters  from  the  west  said,  a 
red  man  had  been  among  them,  whose  tracks 
were  far  off  toward  the  rising  sun ;  that  he  seemed 
like  one  who  had  lost  his  way,  and  was  sick  to 
go  home  to  the  Great  Spirit.  Perchance,  he  slept 
his  last  sleep  where  the  distant  Mississippi  re- 

17* 


198  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

ceives  its  hundred  streams.  Alone  and  unfriended, 
he  may  have  laid  him  down  to  die,  where  no  man 
called  him  brother ;  and  the  wolves  of  the  desert, 
long  ere  this,  may  have  howled  the  death  song  of 
the  Mohawk  Eagle. 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

BY    THE 
AUTHOR  OF  '  HOPE  LESLIE. 


"  La  Nature  fait  le  merite, 
La  Fortune  le  met  en  preuve.'* 

Many  fortunate  travellers  on  the  western  bor- 
der of  Massachusetts,  and  not  many  miles  from 
the  Hudson,  have  been  refreshed  at  the  inn  of 
Reliance  Reynolds,  Reliance,  as  his  name  indi- 
cates, was  born  in  the  good  old  times.  We  are 
aware  that  the  enthusiasts  about  the  "  progress  of 
the  age,"  deny  this  golden  period  any  but  a  retro- 
spective existence,  and  maintain  that,  retrace  the 
steps  of  the  human  family  far  as  you  will, 
it  is  like  the  age  of  chivalry,  always  a  little 
behind  you.  But  we  adhere  to  the  popular  phra- 
seology, and  call  those  "  good  old  times,"  when 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  199 

the  Puritanical  nomenclature  prevailed ;  when 
-such  modest  graces  as  faith  and  temperance  had 
:-not  been  expelled  from  our  taverns,  kitchens,  and 
•  workshops,  by  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  ro- 
mance— the  Orlandos  and  Lorenzos,  Rosamonds 
and  Anna  Matildas. 

Reliance  belonged  to  the  "  good  old  times,"  too, 
in  the  more  essential  matter  of  downright  honesty, 
simplicity,  and  respectful  courtesy.  His  was  a 
rare  character  in  New-England— a  passive  spirit, 
content  to  fill  and  fit  the  niche  nature  had  pre- 
pared for  him.  It  w^as  not  very  high,  but  he 
never  aspired  above  it ;  nor  very  low,  but  he  never 
sank  below  it.  He  was  the  marvel  of  his  neigh- 
bours, for  he  could  never  be  persuaded  into  an 
enterprise,  or  speculation.  He  never  bought  a 
water  privilege,  nor  an  oar  bed ;  subscribed  to  a 
county  bank,  or  "  moved  to  the  West ;"  or  in  any 
mode  indicated  that  principle  in  man,  which,  in 
its  humble  operations,  is  restlessness,  in  its  lofty 
aspirations,  a  longing  after  immortality.  Re- 
hance's  desires  never  passed  the  bounds  of  his 
premises,  and  were  satisfied,  even  within  them, 
with  a  very  moderate  share  of  power.  He  stood  at 
his  door,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  to  receive  his  guests; 
he  strictly  performed  the  promise  of  his  sign,  and 


200  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

gave  "good  entertainment  to  man  and  horse;" 
he  rendered  a  moderate  bill,  and  received  his  dues 
with  a  complacent  smile,  in  Avhich  gratitude  was 
properly  tempered  with  a  just  sense  of  his  own 
rights.  In  short,  as  must  be  already  quite  mani- 
fest, Reliance,  though  a  pattern  landlord,  is  a  very 
poor  subject  for  a  storyteller ;  his  qualities,  like 
the  colours  in  a  ray  of  light,  all  blending  and 
forming  one  hue,  and  his  life  presenting  the  same 
monotonous  harmony. 

We  should  not  have  forced  him  from  his  happy 
obscurity  into  the  small  degree  of  notoriety  he 
may  incur  on  our  humble  page,  but  for  his  being 
the  adjunct  of  his  wife,  an  important  personage  in 
our  narrative. 

Mrs.  Reynolds,  too,  like  her  husband,  performed 
exactly  the  duties  of  her  station.  She  never  per- 
haps read  a  line  of  poetry,  save  such  as  might 
lurk  in  the  "  Poet's  Corner"  of  a  village  paper, 
but  her  whole  life  was  an  illustration  of  the  old- 
fashioned  couplet — 

"  Honour  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise, 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honour  lies.' 

She  never  was  a  presidentess  of  a  "  society  for 
ameliorating  the  condition  of  the  Jews,"  or  secre- 


HOMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  201 

tary  or  treasurer  of  any  of  those  beneficent  asso- 
ciations that  rescue  the  latent  talents  of  women 
from  obscurity,  and  mettrent  en  scene  gems  and 
flowers  that  might  otherwise  shine  and  exhale 
unnoticed  and  unknown ;  but  though  humble  was 
her  name  and  destiny,  her  memory  is  dear  to  the 
wayfaring.  Quiet,  order,  and  neatness,  reigned 
at  her  bed  and  board.  No  pirates  harboured  in 
her  bedsteads,  no  bad  luck,  that  evil  genius  of 
housewives,  curdled  her  cream,  spoiled  her  butter 
or  her  bread ;  but  her  table  was  spread  with  such 
simple,  wholesome  fare,  as  might  have  lit  a  smile 
on  the  wan  visage  of  an  old  dyspeptic  ;  and  this 
we  take  to  be  the  greatest  achievement  of  the  gas- 
tronomic art. 

With  the  duties  of  life  so  peacefully  and  so  well 
performed,  our  good  hostess  ought,  according  to 
all  the  rules  of  happiness,  to  have  been  happy ; 
but  it  is  our  melancholy  duty  to  confess  she  was 
not,  and  to  explain  the  cause.  She  had  been 
married  many  years  without  having  any  childr^i; 
that  blfrrfsed  possession,  that  in  transmitting  the 
parents'  existence,  seems  to  extend  its  bounds, 
and  to  render  even  here,  the  mortal  immortal. 
In  addition  to  the  feeling,  common  to  all  women, 
who  naturally  crave  the  sweetest  objects  for  their 


202  ROMANCE  IX  REAL  LIFE. 

tenderest  and  strongest  affections,  Mrs.  Reynolds 
lamented  her  childless  state  with  a  bitterness  of 
repining  approaching  to  that  of  the  Hebrew  wives. 
With  everything  else  in  her  possession  that  could 
inspire  contentment,  her  mind  was  fixed  on  this 
one  desired  good,  and,  like  Hannah  of  old,  she 
was  still  a  "  woman  of  a  sorrowful  spirit."  She 
had  endeavoured  to  solace  herself  with  the  chil- 
dren of  her  kindred,  and  several,  from  time  to 
time,  had  been  adopted  into  her  family ;  but  some 
proved  disagreeable,  and  others  homesick,  and 
there  was  always  a  paramount  duty  or  affection 
that  interfered  with  hers,  till  finally  her  almost 
extinguished  hopes  were  gratified,  and  Providence 
gave  her  a  child  worthy  all  her  care  and  love.* 
In  the  autumn  of  1777,  two  travellers  arrived 

*  We  would  gladly  have  had  it  in  our  power  to  be  exact 
in  dates,  as  our  story  in  good  faith  is  true  in  all,  even  the 
least  important  particulars.  Some  fevp  circumstances,  and 
the  "  spoken  words,"  had  escaped  tradition,  and  of  course 
were  necessarily  supplied,  as  the  proper  statue  receives  a 
foot  or  finger  from  the  ruder  hand  of  modern  art.  The 
name  of  the  heroine  having  been  subsequently  merged 
and  forgotten  in  that  of  her  husband,  we  have  ventured  to 
retain  it.  The  rest  we  have  respectfully  veiled  under 
a?ss\uned  appellations. 


ROMANCE  OF  REAL  LIFE.  203 

'  just  at  liightfail  at  Reynold's  iim.  Its  aspect  was 
inviting  ;  situated  in  the  heart  of  a  fertile  valley 
that  had  lately  been  refreshed  by  the  early  rains 
of  autumn,  and  in  its  bright  garb  resembling  a 
mature  beauty  that  had  happily  harmonized 
some  youthful  tints  with  her  soberer  graces.  A 
sprightly,  winding  stream,  gave  life  and  music  to 
the  meadows.  On  every  side  the  landscape  was 
undulating  and  fertile,  but  not  then  as  extensively 
cultivated  as  now,  when,  to  the  Tauconnuc  on 
the  south,  and  the  lofty  blue  outline  of  the  Cats- 
kills  on  the  west,  the  eye  ranges  over  a  rich  and 
enjoyed  country.  Besides  the  accidental  charm 
of  a  pretty  landscape,  the  inn  had  advantages  pe- 
culiar to  itself.  Instead  of  being  placed  on  the 
roadside,  as  most  of  our  taverns  are— for  Avhat 
reason  we  knoM^  not,  unless  a  cloud  of  travellers' 
dust  be  typical  of  a  shower  of  gold  to  the  vision 
of  mine  host— Reynold's  inn  was  separated  from 
the  highway  by  a  court-yard,  shaded  by  two  wide 
spreading  elms,  and  enlivened  with  a  profusion 
of  autumnal  flowers,  marigolds,  cockscombs,  and 
china-asters. 

There  was  nothing  that  indicated  any  claims 
to  particular  civility  in  the  appearance  of  our 
travellers.    They  were  well  looking  and  respect- 


^. 


204  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

ably  apparelled;  and,  accordingly,  having  an- 
nounced their  determination  to  remain  for  the 
night,  they  were  shown  to  an  inner  room,  the 
parlour,  par  excellence^  where  Mrs.  Reynolds- 
appeared,  and  having  opened  a  door  which  ad- 
mitted the  balmy  air  and  a  view  of  the  western 
sky,  just  then  brightened  by  the  tints  of  the  set- 
ting sun,  she  received  their  orders  for  their  supper, 
and  retired  without  one  of  those  remarks  or  in^- 
quiries  by  which  it  is  usual,  on  such  occasions,  ta 
give  vent  to  curiosity.  Nothing  passed  between 
our  travellers  in  the  dull  interval  that  elapsed  be- 
fore their  meal  was  ready,  to  give  to  our  readers 
the  least  clue  to  their  origin  or  destiny.  One  of 
them  lulled  himself  into  a  doze  in  the  rocking 
chair,  while  the  other,  younger  and  more  active 
and  vivacious,  amused  himself  out  of  doors,  pluck- 
ing flowers,  enraging  an  old  petulant  cock  turkey, 
and  mocking  the  scolding  of  some  Guinea-hens, 
the  Xantippes  of  the  feathered  race. 

The  interval  was  not  long.  The  door  opened, 
and  the  tea-table  was  brought  in,  already  spread, 
(a  mode  we  wish  others  would  adopt  from  our 
pattern  landlady,)  and  spread  in  a  manner  to  cha- 
racterize our  bountiful  country. 

WTiat  a  contrast  does  the  evening  meal  of  our 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  205 

humblest  inns  present  to  the  leanness  of  an  Eng- 
lish tea-table !  A  cornucopia  would  have  been  the 
appropriate  symbol  for  Mrs.  Reynolds's  table. 
There  were  beaf  steaks,  and  ham  and  eggs ;  hot 
cakes  and  toast ;  bread  and  gingerbread ;  all  the 
indigenous  cakes,  such  as  crullers  and  nutcakes, 
&c. ;  honey,  sweetmeats,  apple  sauce,  cheese, 
pickles,  and  an  afterpiece  of  pies.  Kind  reader, 
do  not  condemn  our  bill  of  fare  as  impertinent  and 
iiilgar.  We  put  it  down  to  show  the  scared  politi- 
cal economists,  that  with  us,  instead  of  the  popu- 
lation pressing  on  the  means  of  subsistence,  the 
means  of  subsistence  presses  on  the  population. 

Our  travellers  fell  to  their  repast  with  appetites 
w^hetted  by  a  long  fast  and  a  day's  ride.  Not  a 
word  was  spoken,  till  a  little  girl,  who  was  sit- 
ting on  the  doorstep  caressing  a  tame  pigeon,  per- 
ceiving that  one  of  the  guests  had  garnished  his 
buttonhole  with  a  bunch  of  marigolds,  plucked  a 
rose  from  a  monthly  rose  bush,  trained  over  a 
trellis  at  the  door,  and  laid  it  beside  his  plate.  He 
seemed  struck  with  the  modest  oflisring,  and,  turn- 
ing with  a  look  of  gratitude  to  the  child,  he  patted 
her  on  her  head,  and  exclaimed  instinctively, 
'  Mercij  Tnercij  ma  petite  /'  and  then  correcting 

18 


206  ROMANCE   IN   REAL   LIFE. 

himself,  he  said,  in  very  imperfect  Enghsh,  '  I 
thank  you,  my  httle  girl.' 

The  child's  attention  was  fixed  by  the  first  word 
he  uttered,  and  as  he  addressed  his  companion  in 
French,  her  countenance  indicated  more  emotion 
than  would  naturally  have  been  excited  by  the  sim- 
ple circumstance  of  hearing,  for  the  first  time,  a  fo- 
reign language.  '  Qii'elle  est  belle,  cette  petite,^  he 
continued,  turning  to  his  companion;  'c'es^  la 
heautede  mon  pays — voild^brunette,  et  les  yeux^si 
grands,  si  noirs,  et  la  townure  aussi — quelle 
grdce^quellevivacite!  Ah!  Monsieur,  Monsieur, 
c'est  tout-dfait  Frangoise.''  As  he  proceeded,  the 
child  advanced  nearer  to  him.  She  shook  back  the 
rich,  dark  curls  that  shaded  her  face,  bent  her  head 
forward,  half  parted  her  bright  lips,  and  listened 
with  the  uncertain  and  eager  expression  of  one 
who  is  catching  ahalf  remembered  tune,  the  key  to 
a  thousand  awakening  recollections.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  she  did  not  comprehend  the  purport  of 
the  words,  and  that  it  was  the  sound  alone  to 
which  her  delighted  ear  was  stretched. 

A  smile  played  about  her  lips,  and  tears  gather- 
ed in  her  eyes,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  contra- 
riety of  emotions,  confounding  even  to  herself; 


ROMANCE   INT   REAL    LIFE.  207 

but  that  which  finally  prevailed  was  indicated  by 
her  throwing  her  apron  over  her  head,  and  re- 
treating to  the  doorstep,  where  she  sat  down,  and 
for  some  moments,  vainly  attempted  to  stifle  her 
sobs.  She  had  just  become  tranquil,  when  Mrs. 
Reynolds  entered. 

The  elder  traveller  said,  in  an  interrogating 
tone,  "  That  is  your  child,  ma'am  ?" 

"  I  call  her  mine,"  was  the  brief  and  not  very 
satisfactory  reply. 

"  She  resembles  neither  you  nor  your  husband," 
resumed  the  traveller. 

"  No  ;  she  does  not  favour  us." 

"  I  fancied  she  had  a  French  look." 

"  I  can't  say  as  to  that,"  replied  the  landlady;  "  I 
never  saw  any  French  people." 

"  My  friend  here  is  a  Frenchman,"  pursued  the 
traveller,  "  and  the  little  girl  listened  to  him  so  in- 
tently, that  I  thought  it  possible  she  might  under- 
stand him." 

"  No,  I  guess  she  did  not  sense  him,"  replied 
Mrs.  RejTiolds,  with  an  air  of  indifference ;  and 
then  turning  hastily  to  the  child,  "  Mary,"  she 
said,  "  there  is  more  company ;  go  and  see  if  your 
father  does  not  want  you," 

She  went,  and  did  not  return.    Mrs.  Reynolds 


208  ROMANCE   IN   REAL    LIFE. 

herself  removed  the  table.  The  elder  gentlema., 
sat  dowa  to  write  a  letter ;  while  the  Frenchman 
walked  to  and  fro,  opened  the  doors,  and  peeped 
in  every  direction  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  little 
girl,  who  seemed  to  have  taken  complete  posses- 
sion of  his  imagination.  Once,  as  she  ran  through 
the  passage,  he  called  to  her,  "  Doucement!  douce- 
ment !  mon  petit  fl7?_^e"— she  stopped  as  if  she 
were  glued  to  the  floor.  "  How  call  you  your 
name,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Mary  Reynolds,  sir." 

'•  Then  Madame  there,  IVIistress  Reynolds,  is 
your  maman  ?" 

«  She  is " 

"  Mary,  what  are  you  staying  for  ?  Here— this 
instant!"  screamed  Mrs.  Reynolds  from  the  kitchen 
door,  in  a  tone  that  admitted  no  delay,  and  the 
child  ran  off  without  finishing  her  sentence. 

"  C^est  Men  singulier  /"  muttered  the  French- 
man. 

"  What  do  you  find  so  singular,  Jaubert?"  ask- 
ed his  companion,  who  had  just  finished  his  letter, 
and  thrown  down  his  pen. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  nothing— perhaps— but — " 

" '  But'  what,  my  friend  ?" 

"  Why,  there  seems  to  me  some  mystery  about 


ROMANCE   IN    REAL   LIFE.  209 

this  child  ;  something  in  her  manner,  I  know  not 
what,  that  stirs  up  strange  thoughts  and  hopes  in 
my  mind.  She  is  not  one  of  the  pale,  blond  beau- 
ties, of  your  climate." 

"  Ah !  my  good  friend,  we  have  all  sorts  of 
beauties  in  our  clime.  All  nations,  you  know, 
have  sent  us  their  contributions.  The  blue  eye 
and  fair  skin,  the  Saxon  traits,  certainly  prevail 
in  our  Eastern  States  ;  but  you  know  we  border 
on  New- York,  the  asylum  of  the  dark  eyed  Hu- 
guenots, and  it  is  not  impossible  that  to  this  child 
may  have  been  transmitted  the  peculiarities  of 
some  French  ancestor.  Nothing  is  more  common 
than  a  resemblance  between  a  descendant  and  a 
far  off  progenitor." 

"  Ah !  it  is  not  only  the  French,  the  Norman  as- 
pect, the— do  not  ridicule  me— the  Angely  traits 
that  attract  me ;  but  you  yourself  noticed  how 
she  listened  to  my  language,  and  then  this  Mis- 
tress Reynolds  does  not  say  she  is  her  child,  but 
only  she  calls  her  so." 

"  Pshaw !  is  that  all  ?    It  is  the  way  of  my 

country  people,  Jaubert ;    their    indirectness  is 

proverbial.     If  one  of  them  were  to  say  'yes' 

or  '  no,'  you  might  suspect  some  deep  mystery. 

I  confess  I  was  at  first  startled  with  the  little  girl's 

10* 


210  ROMANCE    IN   REAL   LIFE. 

emotion,  but  I  soon  perceived  it  was  nothing  but 
shame  and  embarrassment  at  the  curiosity  she 
had  betrayed.  I  see  how  it  is,  Jaubert ;  fruitless 
and  hopeless  as  is  our  search,  you  cannot  bear  to 
relinquish  it,  and  are  looking  for  some  coup  de 
theatre,  some  sudden  transition  from  disappoint- 
ment to  success." 

We  have  put  into  plain  English  a  conversation 
that  was  supported  in  French,  and  was  now  bro- 
ken off  by  the  approach  of  Mrs.  Reynolds,  who 
came  to  tell  the  travellers  their  bedrooms  were 
ready.  By  the  light  of  the  candle  she  brought, 
she  discovered  Mary,  concealed  in  a  corner  of  the 
passage  close  to  the  door,  where,  in  breathless 
stillness,  she  had  been  listening.  "You  here, 
Mary !"  exclaimed  the  good  woman  ;  "  I  thought 
you  had  been  in  bed  this  half  hour.  You  will 
make  me  angry  with  you,  Mary,  if  you  do  not 
mind  me  better  than  this,"  she  added  in  an  under 
tone,  and  the  child  stole  away,  but  without  looking 
either  very  penitent  or  very  fearful ;  and  in  truth 
she  had  cause  for  neither  penitence  nor  fear,  for 
she  had  only  gratified  an  innocent  and  almost  ir- 
repressible inclination;  and  as  to  Dame  Reynolds's 
anger,  it  was  never  formidable. 

The  travellers  retired  to  their  respective  apart- 


ROMANCE   IN    REAL   LIFE.  211 

ments,  and  while  the  landlady  lingered  to  adjust 
her  parlour,  the  letter  that  had  been  left  on  the 
table  caught  her  eye.  Nothing  could  Tae  more  na- 
tural than  for  her  to  look  at  the  superscription. 
Painfully  she  spelt  out  the  first  line.  "  A  Mon- 
sieur, Afon-szeitr"— but  when  she  came  to  the  next, 
her  eye  was  rivetted,  "  St.  Jean  Angely  de  Creve- 
Cceur."  After  gazing  on  it  till  she  had  made 
assurance  doubly  sure,  she  was  hastening  to  her 
husband  to  participate  the  discoveiy  with  him, 
when,  apparently  changing  her  intentions,  she 
retreated,  bohed  the  door,  and  returned  to  the  ex- 
amination of  the  letter.  It  was  unsealed.  Re- 
luctant to  open  it,  she  compromised  with  her  con- 
science, and  peeped  in  at  both  ends,  but  the  ^vri- 
ting  was  not  perceptible,  and  her  interest  over- 
coming her  scruples,  she  unfolded  the  letter. 
Alas !  it  was  in  French.  In  vain  her  eye  ran  over 
the  manuscript  to  catch  some  words  that  might 
serve  as  clues  to  the  rest.  There  was  nothing  in 
all  the  three  pages  she  could  comprehend,  but 
"  ai-iHve  a  New-York''^— ^^ la  riviere  d?Hudson^^-~ 
"  le  manoir  de  Livingston?'' 

She  was  refolding  the  letter,  when  the  follow- 
ing postscript,  inadvertently  written  in  English, 


212  EOMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

caught  her  eye:  "As  we  have  no  encourage- 
ment to  proceed  farther  in  our  search,  and  Jean 
and  Avenel  are  all  impatience,  Jaubert  will  em- 
bark in  the  Neptune,  which  is  to  sail  on  the 
first." 

.  A  gleam  of  pleasure  shot  across  Mrs.  Reynold's 
face,  but  it  soon  darkened  again  with  anxiety  and 
perplexity.  "  Why  did  I  open  the  letter  ?"  she 
asked  herself.  "  Why  did  I  look  at  it  at  all  ? 
But  nobody  will  ever  know  that  I  have  seen  it, 
unless  I  tell  it  myself;  and  why  should  I  tell  ?" 
A  burst  of  tears  concluded  this  mental  interroga- 
tion, and  proved  that,  however  earnestly  her 
heart  might  plead  before  the  tribunal  of  con- 
science, yet  the  stern  decision  of  that  unerring 
judge  was  heard.  Self-interest  has  a  hard  task 
when  it  would  mystify  the  path  of  one  who  ha- 
bitually walks  by  the  clear  light  of  truth,  straight 
onward  in  the  path  of  duty. 

It  may  seem  natural  to  the  inexperienced,  that 
Mrs.  Reynolds  did  not  communicate  her  embar- 
rassment and  irresolution,  from  whatever  cause 
they  proceeded,  to  her  husband ;  but  she  well 
knew  what  would  be  the  result  of  a  consultation; 
for  he,  good  man,  never  viewed  a  subject  but 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  213 

from  one  position,  and  we  are  all  slow  to  ask 
advice  that  we  foresee  will  be  counter  to  our 
wishes. 

Mrs.  Reynolds,  so  far  then  from  appealing  to 
the  constituted  authority  of  her  household,  locked 
her  discovery  within  her  own  bosom,  and,  to 
avoid  all  suspicion  and  inquiry,  she  composed 
herself  as  soon  as  possible,  and  retired  to  her  bed, 
but  not  to  sleep ;  and  at  peep  of  dawn  she  was 
up  and  prepared  to  obtain  all  the  satisfaction  that 
indirect  interrogation  could  procure  from  the 
travellers ;  and  her  mental  resolution,  invigorated 
by  a  night's  solitary  reflection,  was  "  to  act  up  to 
her  light." 

They  had  ordered  breakfast  at  a  very  early 
hour,  and  she  took  care  to  be  the  only  person  in 
attendance  on  them.  When  they  were  seated  at 
table,  she  placed  herself  in  a  rocking  chair  be- 
hind them,  a  position  that  happily  reconciles  the 
necessity  of  service  with  the  dignity  of  indepen- 
dence, and  began  her  meditated  approaches,  by 
saying  to  her  own  countryman,  "  I  believe  you 
left  a  letter  here  last  night,  sir ;  I  laid  it  in  the 
cupboard,  for  fear  of  accidents." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am ;  I  ought  to  have  been 


214  ROMANCE  IX  REAL  LIFE. 

more  careful.    It  was  a  letter  of  some  conse- 
quence." 

"  Indeed  !  Well  I  was  thinking  it  might  be." 

"  Ah  !  what  made  you  think  so  ?" 

Now  we  must  premise,  that  neither  of  the  par- 
ties speaking,  knew  any  thing  of  that  sensitive- 
ness that  starts  from  a  question  as  if  an  attacl 
were  made  on  private  property ;  but  they  pos- 
sessed, in  common,  the  good  natured  commu- 
nicativeness that  is  said  to  characterize  the  New- 
England  people,  who,  in  their  colloquial  traffic, 
as  in  other  barter,  hold  exchange  to  be  no  rob- 
bery. 

Most  women  are  bom  diplomatists,  and  Mrs. 
Reynolds  took  care  to  reply  to  the  last  interroga- 
tory so  carefully  as  not  to  commit  herself.  "  It 
stands  to  reason,"  she  said,  "  a  letter  that  is  to  go 
all  the  way  over  the  wide  sea  to  the  old  countries, 
should  be  of  consequence." 

"  Yes — it  is  a  long  voyage." 

"  You  have  taken  it  yourself,  perhaps,  sir  ?" 

"  I  have.  I  went  out  an  officer  on  board  one  of 
our  cruisers,  and  was  wrecked  on  the  coast  of 
France." 

"Of  France !  Well^  we  are  hand  and  glove  with 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  215 

the  French  now ;  but  I  tell  my  husband  it  seems 
to  me  like  joining  with  our  enemies  agamst  those 
of  our  own  household." 

*'  Ah  !  IMrs.  Reynolds,  '  friends  are  sometimes 
better  than  kindred.'  I  am  sure  my  ovm.  fa- 
ther's son  could  not  have  been  kinder  to  me  than 
was  Monsieur  Angely  de  Creve-Coeur — hey,  Jau- 
bert  ?" 

"  Ah  !  vraiment,  Monsieur  !  c'est  un  Men  brave 
homme,  Monsieur  St.  Jean  Angely?^ 

"  Angely  !"  said  Mrs.  Reynolds,  as  if  recalling 
some  faded  recollection,  "  Angely — I  think  I  have 
heard  tliat  name  before." 

"  It  may  be.  The  gentleman  I  speak  of  resided 
some  time  in  this  country." 

"  But  it  can't  be  the  same,'^  replied  Mrs.  Rey- 
nolds :  "  for  the  person  I  speak  of  lived  over  in 
Livingston's  manner;  and  kind  to  strangers  he 
could  not  be,  for  he  deserted  his  o^vn  flesh  and 
blood,  and  went  off  early  in  the  war." 

"  It  may  be  the  same  for  all  that,  and  must  be. 
As  to  his  deserting  his  children,  '  thereby  hangs  a 
tale ;'  but  it  is  a  long  one." 

"  Well,  sir,  if  you  have  any  thing  to  say  in  his 
favour,  I  am  bold  to  say  I  think  you  ought  to 
speak  it ;  especial!}    as  the  gentleman  seems  tc» 


216  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

have  stood  your  friend  in  a  cloudy  day.  The 
story  certainly  went  sadly  against  him  here." 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  objection,  ma'am,  to 
telling  the  story,  if  you  have  the  patience  to  hear 
it ;  especially  as  I  see  I  must  wait  till  Jaubert 
has  finished  two  more  of  your  nice  fresh  eggs— 
'  eggs  of  an  hour,'  Mrs.  Reynolds." 

"  We  always  calculate  to  have  fresh  eggs,  sir. 
But  what  was  you  going  to  say  of  Mr.  Angely  ?" 
she  added,  betraying,  in  the  tremulous  tones  of 
her  voice,  some  emotion  more  heart  stirring  than 
curiosity.  Jaubert  turned  a  glance  of  inquiry  on 
her  that  was  answered  by  a  sudden  rush  of  blood 
to  her  cheeks ;  but  the  narrator  proceeded  with- 
out noticing  any  thing  extraordinary.  "  It  was 
my  good,  or  ill  luck,"  he  said,  "  and  it  is  only  in 
the  long  run  that  we  can  tell  whether  luck  be 
good  or  ill — but  it  was  my  luck  to  be  shipwrecked 
on  the  coast  of  Normandy,  and  good  luck  it  cer- 
tainly was,  Jaubert,  in  my  distress,  to  make  such 
a  port  as  the  Chateau  de  Creve-Coeur — the  castle, 
or,  as  we  should  call  it  here,  Mrs.  Reynolds,  the 
estate  of  the  Angely's.  A  fine  family  they  are. 
You  may  think  what  a  pleasure  it  was  to  me  to 
find  a  gentleman  acquainted  with  my  country, 
and  speaking  my  language,  as  did  Mr.  St.  Jean 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  217 

Angely.  He  was  kind  and  affable  to  me,  and  al- 
ways doing  something  for  my  pleasure,  but  I 
could  see  he  had  a  heaviness  at  his  heart— that 
he  was  often  talking  of  one  thing  and  thinking  of 
another— nothing  like  so  gay  as  the  old  gentle- 
man, his  father ;  who  was  like  a  fall  flower— one 
of  your  marigolds,  Mrs.  Re)aiolds,  spreading  it- 
self open  to  every  ray  of  sunshine,  as  if  there 
were  no  frosts  and  winter  and  death  at  hand.  I 
felt  a  pity  for  the  young  man.  With  every  thing 
that  heart  could  desire,  and  without  a  heart  to  en- 
joy, he  seemed  to  me  like  a  sick  man  seated  at  a 
feast  of  which  he  could  not  taste.  The  day  be- 
fore I  was  to  have  come  away,  he  took  me  aside, 
and,  after  saying  that  I  had  won  his  entire  confi- 
dence, he  disclosed  to  me  the  following  particu- 
lars : — 

"  He'  entered  the  French  army  early  in  life, 
and  while  yet  a  hot  blooded,  inconsiderate  youth, 
he  killed  a  brother  officer  in  a  duel,  and  was 
obliged  to  fly  his  country.  He  took  refuge  in 
Lisbon.  Judgement,  I  may  say  mercy,  too— in 
the  dealings  of  Providence,  Mrs.  Rejiiolds,  one  is 
always  close  on  the  track  of  the  other— followed 
him  thither.  Mr.  Angely  found  employment  in 
a  mercantile  house,  and  was  standing  writing  at 


218  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

his  desk  at  the  moment  of  the  terrible  earth- 
quake that  laid  Lisbon  in  ruins.  The  timbers  of 
the  house  in  which  he  was,  were  pitched  in  such 
a  manner  as  to  form  a  sort  of  arch  over  his 
head,  on  which  the  falling  roof  was  sustained,  and 
thus  he  was,  as  it  were,  miraculously  delivered 
from  danger.  From  Lisbon  he  came  to  this 
country.  '  Mechanics,'  says  a  Spanish  proverb, 
*  make  the  best  pilgrims,'  but,  I  am  sure,  not  bet- 
ter than  Frenchmen ;  for  cast  them  where  you 
will,  they  will  get  an  honest  living.  Mr.  Angely 
came  up  to  Livingston's  manor,  and  there  he  took 
a  fancy  to  a  pretty  Yankee  girl,  the  only  child 
of  a  widow,  and  married  her.  He  earned  a  sub- 
sistence for  his  family  by  surveying.  The  coun- 
try was  new,  and  skilful  surveyors  scarce.  After 
a  few  years  his  wife  died,  and  left  him  three  chil- 
dren." 

"  Three !"  repeated  Mrs.  Reynolds,  involunta- 
rily sighing. 

"  Yes,  pOor  things !  there  xcere  three  of  them  ; 
too  many  to  be  left  in  these  hard  times  fatherless 
and  motherless." 

"  Ah,  sir  !  and  what  must  we  think  of  the  fa- 
ther that  could  forsake  his  little  children  at  such 
a  time  ?" 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  219 

*■'  Think  no  evil,  my  friend  j  for  Mr.  Angely 
did  not  deserve  it.  He  was  employed  by  Mrs. 
Livingston,  early  in  the  war,  to  go  down  the  river 
to  survey  some  land  near  New- York.  There  he 
was  taken  by  the  British  as  a  spy,  and,  in  spite  ol 
his  remonstrances,  sent  to  England.  This  was 
before  the  French  had  taken  part  with  us,  and  he 
obtained  leave  to  go  to  France,  on  giving  his  pa- 
role that  he  would  not  return  to  America.  He 
received  a  parent's  welcome,  and  the  affair  of  the 
duel  being  nearly  forgotten,  a  pardon  was  ob- 
tained for  him  without  difficulty.  If  he  could 
have  forgotten  his  children,  he  would  have  been 
as  happy  as  man  could  be ;  but  his  anxiety  for 
them  preyed  on  his  health  and  spirits ;  and  when 
I  arrived  at  the  chateau,  his  friends  imagined  he 
was  sinking  under  some  unknown  disease.  He 
had  not  communicated  to  his  father  the  fact  of 
his  marriage  and  the  existence  of  his  children 
when  I  arrived  there.  The  old  gentleman,  kind 
hearted  and  reasonable  in  the  main,  has  all  the 
prejudices  of  the  nobility  in  the  old  countries 
about  birth,  and  his  son  was  afraid  to  confess  that 
he  had  smuggled  an  ignoble  little  yankee  into 
the  ancient  family  of  the  Creve-Cceurs.  So  good 
an  opportunity  as  I  afforded  of  communicating 


220  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

with  his  children,  could  not  be  passed  by,  and  he 
at  length  summoned  courage  to  tell  the  truth  to 
his  father.  At  first,  he  was  wroth  enough,  and 
stormed  and  vapoured ;  but,  after  a  little  while,  his 
kind  nature  got  the  mastery  of  the  blood  of  the 
Creve-Coeurs,  and  he  consented  to  the  children 
being  sent  for — the  boys,  at  least." 

"  Only  the  boys !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Reynolds, 
feeling  relieved  from  an  insupportable  weight. 

"  Only  the  boys.  But  the  old  gentleman  might 
have  as  well  saved  all  his  credit,  and  sent  for  the 
girl  to ;  but  that  was  not  his  pleasure.  Well, 
Monsieur  Jaubert  here,  a  relative  and  particular 
friend  to  the  family,  came  out  with  me  to  take 
charge  of  the  ciiildren.  We  found  the  boys  with- 
out much  difficulty ;  two  noble  little  fellows,  that 
a  king  might  be  proud  of.  After  waiting  for  some 
time  for  Monsieur  Angely's  return,  the  overseers 
of  the  poor,  believing  he  had  abandoned  his  child- 
ren, bound  them  out.  The  httle  girl  had  been 
removed  to  some  distance  from  her  brothers. 
We  found  the  place  where  she  had  been,  but  not 
the  family.  The  husband  and  wife  had  quarrelled, 
and  separated  and  disappeared ;  and  all  the  m  for- 
mation we  could  obtain,  was  a  vague  story  that 
such  a  child  had  lived  there  and  had  run  away ; 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  221 

and  as  nobody  in  these  troublesome  times  can  do 
more  than  look  after  their  own  children,  this  poor 
thing  was  left  to  her  fate.  Hopeless  as  it  appears, 
Jaubert  is  not  M-illing  to  give  up  our  search.  He 
fancies  every  brunette  he  sees  is  the  lost  Marie, 
and  only  last  evening  he  would  have  persuaded 
me,  that  your  black  eyed  little  girl  might  be  this 
stray  scion  of  the  Creve-Coeurs." 

Mrs.  Reynolds  rose  and  left  the  room,  and  did 
not  return  till  she  was  sufficiently  composed  to 
ask,  in  an  assured  voice,  "  What  was  their  object 
in  looking  for  the  girl,  if  the  father  did  not  mean 
to  reclaim  her  ?" 

"  He  did  mean  to  reclaim  and  provide  for  her," 
replied  the  traveller,  "  and  for  that  purpose  I  have 
ample  funds  in  my  hands.  He  only  conceded  to 
the  old  gentleman  her  remaining  in  the  country 
for  the  present." 

"  Had  you  any  direction  as  to  how  you  were  to 
dispose  of  her  ?"' 

"  Yes,  positive  orders  to  convey  her  to  Boston, 
and  place  her  under  the  guardianship  of  a  French 
lady  who  resides  there,  a  friend  of  Mr.  Angely — 
one  INIadame  Adelon." 

"  But  could  you  find  no  trace  of  the  child  ?" 

"  Not  the  slightest." 


223  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

"  And  you  have  determined  to  make  no  farther 
inquiry  ?" 

"Why  should  we?  Inquiry  is  useless,  and 
would  but  delay  to  a  tempestuous  season  Jau- 
bert's  return  with  the  boys." 

Our  readers  are  doubtless  sufficiently  aware, 
that  the  adopted  child  of  our  good  landlady  was 
the  missing  child  of  Monsieur  Angely.  A  few 
words  will  be  necessary  to  explain  how  she  be- 
came possessed  of  her. 

Mrs.  Reynolds  and  her  husband  were,  two 
years  prior  to  this  period,  approaching  the  close 
of  a  winter  day's  ride.  Their  sleigh  was  gliding 
noiselessly  through  a  dry,  new  fallen  snow,  when 
their  attention  was  arrested  by  the  moanings  of 
a  child.  To  stop  the  horses  and  search  for  the 
sufferer  from  whom  the  sounds  proceeded,  was 
the  instinctive  impulse  of  benevolence.  They 
had  not  gone  many  yards  from  the  road,  when, 
nestled  close  to  a  rock,  and  in  some  measure  de- 
fended from  the  cold  by  a  clump  of  laurels,  they 
found  a  little  girl,  her  hands  and  feet  frozen,  and 
nearly  insensible.  They  immediately  carried  her 
to  the  sleigh,  and  put  their  horses  to  their  utmost 
speed ;  but,  as  they  were  none  of  the  fleetest,  and 
the  nearest  habitatipn  was  at  several  miles  dis- 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  223 

tance,  a  considerable  time  elapsed  before  they 
could  obtain  the  means  of  restoration,  and  in  con- 
sequence of  this  delay,  and  of  severe  previous  suf- 
fering, it  was  many  weeks  before  the  child  re- 
covered. In  the  mean  time,  though  Mrs.  Rey- 
nolds's residence  was  not  more  than  thirty  miles 
from  the  place  where  she  had  found  the  child,  no 
inquiry  was  made  for  her.  The  account  she 
gave  of  herself  sufficiently  explained  this  neglect. 
She  said  she  had  no  mother  ;  that  her  father  had 
left  home  just  after  the  snows  melted  and  the 
birds  came  back ;  that  he  had  left  her  and  her 
two  brothers,  Jean  and  Avenel,  with  a  woman  to 
take  care  of  them ;  that  when  this  woman  had 
waited  a  great  while  for  their  father,  she  grew 
tired,  and  was  cross  to  them,  and  then  she  too 
went  away,  and  left  them  quite  alone.  Then  she 
said  they  had  nothing  to  eat.  and  she  supposed  they 
were  the  poor,  for  the  men  they  called  the  over- 
seers of  the  poor  took  her  and  her  brothers,  and 
separated  them,  and  she  was  carried  a  great  way 
off  to  a  woman  who  was  very  cross  to  her,  and 
cross  to  her  own  children  ;  and  her  husband  was 
cross  too.  One  night  he  came  home  in  a  great  pas- 
sion, and  he  began  to  whip  his  wife  with  his  big 
whip,  and  his  wife  beat  him  with  the  hot  shovel ; 


224  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

and  she,  the  child,  was  scared,  ran  out  of  the 
house,  and  far  up  into  a  wood,  to  get  beyond  their 
cries;  and  when  she  would  have  returned,  the 
snow  was  falling,  and  she  could  not  find  the 
path,  and  she  had  wandered  about  till  she  was  so 
cold  and  tired  she  could  go  no  farther.  Her 
name,  she  said,  was  Angely,  and  she  believed  her 
father  was  called  a  Frenchman.  The  only  pa- 
rental relic  she  possessed  confirmed  this  statement. 
It  was  a  locket  which  she  wore  suspended  at  her 
neck.  It  contained  a  lock  of  hair  ;  an  armorial 
crest  was  engi-aven  on  the  back,  and  under  it  was 
inscribed,  "St.  Jean  Angely  de  Creve-Coeur." 
This  simple  story  established  the  conviction  that 
had  been  gaining  strength  in  Mrs.  Reynold's 
mind,  with  every  day's  attendance  on  the  inte- 
resting child,  that  they  had  been  brought  toge- 
ther by  the  special  providence  of  God  ;  and  most 
faithfully  did  she  discharge  the  maternal  duties 
that  she  believed  had  been  thus  miraculously  im- 
posed on  her.  The  little  girl  was,  on  her  part, 
happy  and  delighted,  and,  though  she  sometimes 
bitterly  lamented  her  father  and  brothers,  yet,  as 
the  impressions  of  childhood  are  slight,  the  recol- 
itection  of  them  was  almost  efl:aced,  when  the  my& 
terious  energies  of  memory  were  awakened  by 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  225 

the  sound  of  a  language  that  seemed  to  have  been 
utterly  forgotten.  These  events  occurred  during 
the  revolutionary  war,  a  period  of  disaster  and 
distress,  when  a  very  dihgent  search  for  a  friend- 
less child  was  not  likely  to  be  made  ;  and  as  no 
inquiry  ever  reached  Mrs.  Reynolds's  ear,  and  as 
she  deemed  the  foundhng  an  orphan,  she  had  not 
hesitated  to  appropriate  her.  Her  name  was 
changed  from  Marie  Angely  to  Mary  Reynolds  ; 
and  the  good  woman  seemed  as  secure  and  happy 
as  any  mother,  save  when  she  was  reminded  of 
the  imperfection  of  her  title  by  the  too  curious 
inquiries  of  travellers.  On  these  occasions,  she 
was  apt  to  betray  a  little  irritability,  and  to  veil 
the  truth  with  a  slight  evasion,  as  m  the  instance 
which  excited  the  suspicion  of  our  sagacious 
Frenchman. 

Her  condition  was  now  a  pitiable  one.  She  had 
the  tenderness,  but  not  the  rights  of  a  parent.  She 
was  habitually  pure  and  upright ;  but  now  she 
was  strongly  swayed  by  her  affections.  She 
w^ould  have  persuaded  herself,  that  the  abandon- 
ment in  which  she  first  fomid  the  child,  invested 
her  with  a  paramount  claim ;  but  the  stranger's 
story  had  proved  that  her  father  had  not  volunta- 
rily abandoned  her.    Then  she  thought,  "  It  can- 


226  ROMANCE    IN   REAL   LIFE. 

not  be  for  Mary's  interest,  that  I  should  give  her 
up ;"  and  her  mind  took  a  rapid  survey  of  the 
growing  property  of  which  the  child  was  the  heir 
apparent.  But  she  would  ask  herself,  "  Wliat 
do  I  know  of  the  fortune  of  her  father  ?  But 
surely  he  cannot,  he  cannot  love  her  as  I  do. 
Ah,  I  do  not  know  the  feeling  of  a  real  parent ;" 
and  a  burst  of  tears  expressed  the  sadness  of  this 
conviction,  and  obliged  her  abruptly  to  withdraw 
from  the  presence  of  her  guests,  and  leave  them 
amazed  at  her  sudden  and  violent  emotion,  while 
she  retired  to  her  own  apartment,  to  implore  gui- 
dance and  support  from  Heaven.  Those  who  ho- 
nestly ask  for  light  to  point  out  a  way  which  they 
would  fain  not  see,  and  for  power  to  endure  a 
burden  from  which  their  nature  shrinks,  are  often 
themselves  astonished  at  the  illumination  vouch- 
safed, and  the  strength  imparted.  This  was  the 
experience  of  Mrs.  Reynolds.  She  rose  from  her 
devotions  with  the  conviction,  that  but  one  course 
remained  to  her,  and  with  a  degree  of  tranquilli- 
ty, hastened  to  Mary's  bedroom. 

The  child  was  just  risen  and  dressed.  Without 
any  explanation  to  her— she  was  at  the  moment 
incapable  of  making  any— she  tied  her  locket, 
her  sole  credential,  around  her  neck,  led  her 


ROMANCE    IN    REAL    LIFE.  227 

down  stairs,  and  placing  her  hand  in  Jaiibert's, 
she  said,  "  Yon  have  found  the  child  I"  and  then 
retreated  to  hide  the  emotion  she  could  not  subdue. 

It  was  fortunate  for  her,  that  she  was  not  com- 
pelled to  witness  the  gay  demonstrations  of  Jau- 
bert's  ecstacies,  the  graver,  but  not  more  equivo- 
cal manifestations  of  his  companions  satisfaction, 
and  the  amazement  and  curiosity  of  the  little  girl, 
who  was  listening  to  the  explanation  of  the  stran- 
gers, with  childlike  animation,  without  adverting 
to  her  approaching  separation  from  her  who  had 
given  her  the  affection  and  cares  of  a  parent. 

But  when  she  came  to  be  severed  from  this 
kind  friend,  she  made  amends  for  her  thought- 
lessness. She  clung  to  her  as  if  nature  had  knit 
the  bonds  that  united  them,  and,  amid  her  cries 
and  sobs,  she  promised  always  to  remember  and 
love  her  as  a  mother.  Many  have  made  such 
promises.    Marie  Angely  kept  them. 


Ten  years  subsequent  to  the  events  above  nar- 
rated, a  letter,  of  which  the  following  is  a  trans- 
lation, was  addressed  by  a  foreigner  in  a  high 
official  station  in  this  country,  to  his  friend. 

*'  Dear  Berville — 

*  It  is,  I  believe,  or  should  be,  a  maxim  of 


228  ROMANCE   IN    REAL   LIFE. 

the  true  church,  that  confession  of  a  sin  is  the  first 
step  towards  its  expiation. 

"  Let  me,  then,  invest  you  with  a  priest's  cas- 
sock, and  reheve  my  conscience  by  the  relation  of 
an  odd  episode  in  my  history.  When  I  parted 
from  you,  I  was  going  with  my  friend,  Robert  El- 
lison, to  visit  his  father,  who  has  a  beautiful  place 
on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson.  Young  Ellison, 
as  you  know,  is  a  thorough  republican,  and  does 
not  conceal  his  contempt  for  those  of  his  compa- 
triots, who,  professing  the  same  principles,  are 
really  aristocrats  in  their  prejudices  and  manners  ; 
who,  having  parted,  and  as  they  pretend,  volunta- 
rily, with  the  substance,  still  grasp  at  the  sha- 
dow. To  test  these  false  pretensions,  and  to  mor- 
tify an  absurd  pride,  he  joyfully  acquiesced  in  a 
proposition  I  made  to  him,  to  lay  aside  the  pomp 
and  circumstance  of  my  official  character,  and  to 
be  presented  to  his  friends  without  any  of  the  ac- 
cidental advantages  with  which  fortune  has  in- 
vested me.  You  will  inquire  my  motive,  for  you 
will  not  suspect  me  of  the  absurdity  of  crusading 
against  the  follies  of  society,  the  most  hopeless 
of  all  crusades.    No,  as  our  own  Moliere  says, 

C'est  une  folie,  a  nuUe  autre  seconde, 
De  vouloir  se  meter  de  corriger  le  monde. 


ROMANCE   IN   REAL   LIFE.  229 

My  motives  were,  then,  in  the  first  place,  a  love  of 
ease,  of  dishabille  ;  an  impatience  of  the  irksome- 
ness  of  having  the  dignity  of  a  nation  to  sustain; 
and,  in  the  second  place,  I  wished  to  ascertain 
how  much  of  the  favour  lavished  on  me  I  should 
place  to  the  account  of  the  ambassador,  and  how 
much  I  might  reserve  to  my  o\vn  proper  self. 

"  You  may  call  this  latent  vanity.  I  will  not 
quarrel  with  you.  I  will  not  pretend  that  I  was 
moved  solely  by  a  love  of  truth,  by  a  pure  desire 
to  find  out  the  realities  of  things  ;  but  alas !  my 
dear  Berville,  if  we  were  to  abstract  from  the  web 
of  our  motives,  every  thread  tinged  with  self, 
would  not  warp  and  woof  too  disappear?  Let, 
then,  my  motive  be  what  it  might,  you  will  allow 
the  experiment  required  courage. 

"  We  had  some  difficulty  in  settling  the  precise 
point  at  which  to  gage  my  pretensions.  '  Do  not 
claim  a  drop  of  noble  blood,'  said  my  friend,  '  it 
vvould  defeat  your  purpose.  There  is  something 
cabalistic  in  that  word  '  noble.'  The  young  ladies 

at would  at  once  invest  you  with  the  attributes 

of  romance ;  and  the  old  dowagers  would  perse 
cute  you  with  histories  of  their  titled  ancestors, 
and  anecdotes  of  lords  and  ladies  that  figured  in 
the  drawing  rooms  of  the  colony.    Neither  must 

20 


230  ROMANCE    IN    REAL    LIFE. 

you  be  a  plain  gentleman  of  fortune,  though  that 
may  seem  to  you  a  sufficient  descent  from  your 
high  station ;  but  fortune  has  every  where  her 
shrines  and  her  devotees.  You  must  be  the  ar- 
tificer of  your  own  fortune,  a  talented  young 
man  who  has  no  rank  or  fortune  to  be  spoken  oL 
What  say  you  to  the  profession  of  a  painter,  sl 
portrait  painter,  since  that  is  the  only  branch  of 
the  art  that  gets  a  man  bread  in  this  country.'  I 
acceded  without  shrinking,  secretly  flattering  my- 
self that  my  friend  either  underrated  my  intrinsic 
merit,  or  did  the  world  rank  injustice. 

"  When  we  arrived,  we  found  a  large  party  of 
the  neighbouring  gentry  assembled   to  dine  at 

.     I  was  received  with  great  courtesy  by 

the  elder  Ellison,  and  with  kindness  by  Madame,, 
on  the  ground,  simply,  of  being  an  acquaintance 
of  their  son's.  My  friend  took  care  to  prevent 
any  elation  from  my  reception  by  saymg  to  me, 
in  a  low  voice,  '  My  father,  God  bless  him,  has 
good  sense,  good  feeling,  and  experience,  and  he 
well  knows  that  the  value  of  gold  does  not  depend 
on  the  circulation  it  has  obtained ;'  and  truly,  if 
he  had  known  that  I  bore  the  impress  of  the  king's 
countenance,  he  could  not  have  received  me  more 
graciously.     There  might  have  been  more  for- 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  231 

mality  in  his  reception  of  the  public  functionary, 
but  there  could  not  have  been  more  genuine  hos- 
pitality. He  presented  me  to  his  guests,  and  here 
I  was  first  reminded  of  my  disguise.  Instead  of 
the  sensation  I  have  been  accustomed  to  see 
manifested  in  the  lighting  up  of  the  face,  in  the 
deferential  bow,  or  the  blush  of  modesty,  no  emo- 
tion was  visible.  No  eye  rested  on  me,  not  a  link 
of  conversation  was  broken,  and  I  was  suffered, 
after  rather  an  awkward  passage  through  the 
ceremony,  to  retire  to  my  seat,  where  I  remained, 
observing,  but  not  observed,  till  dinner  was  an- 
nounced. From  the  habit  of  precedence,  I  was 
advancing  to  lead  Madame  to  the  dining  room, 
when  I  encountered  my  friend's  glance,  and 
shrunk  back  in  time  to  avoid  what  must  have  ap- 
peared an  unpardonable  impertinence.  I  now 
fell  into  my  modest  station  in  the  rear,  and  offered 
my  arm  to  an  awkward  bashful  girl,  who  I  am 
sure  had  two  left  hands  by  the  manner  in  which 
she  received  my  courtesy,  and  who  did  not  honour 
me  so  far  as  to  look  up  to  see  who  it  was  that  had 
saved  her  from  the  mortifying  dilemma  of  leaving 
the  drawing  room  alone.  I  helped  my  companion 
from  the  dish  nearest  to  me,  and  waited  myself 
till  Madame,  reminded  by  her  son  of  her  over- 


232  ROMAXCE  IN  REAL  UFE. 

sight,  sent  me  a  plate  of  soup.  I  was  swallowing 
this,  unmolested  by  any  conversation  addressed 
to  me,  when  my  friend's  father  said  to  him,  'When 
have  you  seen  the  French  ambassador,  Robert  ? 
I  hoped  you  would  have  persuaded  him  to  pay 
us  a  visit.' 

"  '  Perhaps  he  may,'  replied  my  friend, '  before 
the  summer  is  over.  He  is  at  present  out  of  the 
city,  on  some  excursion.' 

" '  A  prodigious  favourite  is  your  son  with  the 
French  ambassador,  as  I  hear  from  all  quarters,' 
said  a  gentleman  who  sat  next  Mr.  Ellison. 

"  '  Ah !  is  that  so,  Robert  ?  Are  you  intimate 
with  Monsieur  < V 

"  '  He  does  me  the  honour  to  permit  my  society, 
sir.'  Every  mouth  was  now  opened  in  pi  aise  of 
the  ambassador.  None  of  the  company  had  seen 
him,  but  all  had  heard  of  his  abilities,  the  charms 
of  his  conversation,  his  urbanity,  his  savoirplaire. 
'  You  must  be  proud  of  your  countryman,  M. 
Dufau  V  (this  was  my  assumed  name)  said  my 
host,  with  that  courtesy  that  finds  a  word  for  the 
humblest  guest. 

"  I  said  it  was  certainly  gratifying  to  my  na- 
tional feeling  to  find  him  approved  in  America, 
but  that,  perhaps  it  was  not  his  merit  alone  that 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  233 

obtained  him  such  distinguished  favour ;  that  I 
had  understood  he  was  a  great  admirer  of  this 
country;  and  though  I  should  do  him  injustice  to 
say  '  he  praised  only  to  be  praised,'  yet  I  believed 
there  was  always  a  pretty  accurately  measured 
exchange  in  this  traffic. 

" '  The  gentleman  is  right,'  said  an  old  Eng- 
lishman wiio  sat  opposite  to  me,  and  who  had 
not  before  vouchsafed  to  manifest  a  consciousness 
of  my  existence ;  '  this  is  all  French  palaver  in 
Monsieur .  He  cannot  be  such  a  warm  ad- 
mirer of  this  country.  The  man  knows  better  ; 
he  has  been  in  England.' 

"  I  was  too  well  acquainted  with  English  man- 
ners to  be  startled  by  any  manifestation  of  that 
conviction  which  an  Englishman  demonstrates  in 
every  part  of  the  world,  that  his  nation  has  no 
equal ;  but  I  instinctively  defended  my  country- 
man, and  eager  for  an  opportunity  to  test  the  col- 
loquial powers  so  much  admired  in  the  ambassa- 
dor, I  entered  the  lists  with  my  English  opponent, 
and  thus  stimulated,  I  was  certainly  far  more 
eloquent  than  I  ever  had  been  before,  on  the  his- 
tory, the  present  condition,  and  the  prospects  of 
this  country.  But  alas  for  the  vanity  of  M.  Du- 
fau !  my  host,  it  is  true,  gave  me  all  the  attention 

20* 


234  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

he  could  spare  from  the  courtesies  of  the  table, 
but  save  his  ear,  I  gained  none  but  that  half  ac- 
corded by  my  contemptuous,  testy,  and  impatient 
antagonist,  who  after  barking  out  a  few  sentences 
at  me,  relapsed  into  a  moody  silence. 

"  I  next  addressed  some  trifling  gallantries  to 
my  bashful  neighbour,  fancying  that  she  who  was 
neglected  by  every  body  else,  would  know  how 
to  appreciate  my  attentions ;  but  her  eyes  were 
rivetted  to  a  fashionable  beauty  at  the  upper  ex- 
tremity of  the  table,  and  a  half  a  dozen  '  no,  sirs,' 
and  '  yes,  sirs,'  misplaced,  were  all  the  return  I 
could  obtain  from  her.  To  remain  silent  and 
passive,  you  know,  to  me,  was  impossible  ;  so  I 
next  made  an  essay  on  a  vinegar  faced  dame  on 
my  left,  far  in  the  wane  of  life.  '  If  my  civilities 
have  been  led  elsewhere,  in  this  market,'  thought 
I,  '  they  will  at  least  prove  silver  or  gold.'  But 
here  I  received  my  cruellest  rebuff;  for  the  lady, 
after  apparently  listening  to  me,  said,  '  I  do  not 
understand  you.'  I  raised  my  voice,  but  she,  de- 
termining to  shelter  the  infirmity  of  age  at  my 
expense,  replied,  '  I  am  not  so  deaf,  sir,  but  really 
you  speak  such  broken  English,  that  I  cannot 
understand  you.'  This  was  too  much;  and  I 
might  have  betrayed  my  vexation,  if  an  intelligent 


HOMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  235 

and  laughing  glance  from  my  friend  had  not  re- 
stored my  good  humour ;  and  a  second  reflection, 
suggesting  that  it  was  far  more  important  to  the 
old  woman's  happiness  that  her  vanity  should  re- 
main unimpaired,  than  it  could  be  to  me  to  have 
mine  reduced,  even  to  fragments,  I  humbly  begged 
her  pardon,  and  relapsed  into  a  contented  silence, 
solacing  myself  with  the  thought,  that  our  en- 
counter was  but  an  illustration  of  that  of  the  china 
and  earthen  jars.  But  I  will  not  weary  you  with 
detailing  all  the  trials  of  my  philosophy,  but  only 
confess  that  the  negligence  of  the  servants  was 
not  the  least  of  them — the  grinning  self-compla- 
cency with  which  these  apes  of  their  superiours 
signified  to  me  that  my  wants  might  be  deferred. 

"  After  all,  my  humble  position  would  not  have 
been  so  disagreeable,  if  I  had  been  accustomed  to 
it.  The  world's  admiration,  like  all  other  luxuries, 
in  the  end  becomes  necessary,  and  then,  too,  like 
other  luxuries,  ceases  to  be  enjoyed,  or  even  felt, 
till  it  is  withdra^vn  and  leaves  an  aching  void.  If 
this  is  Irish,  set  it  down  to  my  broken  English. 

"  After  dinner,  I  followed  the  ladies  to  the 
drawing  room,  and  was  presented  by  my  friend 

to  Miss ,  a  reigning  beauty.   She  received  me 

with  one  of  those  gracious  smiles,  that  a  hacknied 


236  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

belle  always  bestows  on  a  new  worshipper  at  her 
shrine.  These  popular  favourites,  be  it  clergy- 
man, politician,  or  beauty,  are  as  covetous  of  the 
flatteries  they  receive,  as  a  miser  is  of  gold.  No 
matter  how  unclean  the  vessel  from  which  the  in- 
cense rises ;  no  matter  what  base  aUoy  may  min- 
gle with  the  precious  metal.  Have  you  ever  en- 
countered one  of  these  spoiled  favourites  in  the 
thronged  street,  and  tried  to  arrest  the  attention 
for  a  moment ;  to  fix  the  eye  that  was  roving  for 
every  tributary  glance  ?  If  you  have,  you  will 
understand,  without  my  describing  it,  the  distrait 
manner  with  which  the  belle  received  my  first 
compliments.  Even  this  was  not  long  accorded 
me ;  for  a  better  accredited  and  more  zealous  ad- 
mirer than  myself  appearing,  she  left  me  to  my 
meditations,  which  w^ere  not  rendered  the  more 
agreeable  by  my  overhearing  an  old  lady  say,  in  a 
voice,  which,  though  slightly  depressed,  she  evi- 
dently made  no  effort  to  subdue  to  an  inaudible 
key,  '  I  wonder  what  possessed  Robert  Ellison  to 
bring  that  French  portrait  painter  here !  How  the 
world  has  changed  since  the  Revolution  !  There 
is  no  longer  any  house  where  you  don't  meet 
mixed  society.'  My  friend  had  approached  in 
time  to  overhear  her  as  well  as  myself.     '  The 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  237 

ignorant  old  fool!'  ha  exclaimed,  'shall  I  tell 
her  that  artists  are  the  nobility  of  every  coun- 
try?' 

"  '  No,'  said  I,  '  do  not  waste  your  rhetoric ; 
there  is  no  enlightening  the  ignorance  of  stupidi- 
ty ;  a  black  substance  will  not  reflect  even  the 
sun's  rays.' 

"Ellison  then  proposed  that  I  should  join  a 
party  at  whist ;  but  I  complained  of  the  heated 
air  of  the  drawing-room,  and,  availing  myself  of 
my  insignificance,  I  followed  the  bent  of  my  in- 
clinations, a  privilege  the  humble  should  not  un- 
dervalue, and  sauntered  abroad.  The  evening  was 
beautiful  enough  to  have  soothed  a  misanthrope, 
or  warm.ed  the  heart  of  a  stoic.  Its  peace,  its  sa- 
lutary, sacred  voice,  restored  me  to  myself,  and  I 
was  ashamed  that  my  tranquillity  had  been  dis- 
turbed. I  contemned  the  folly  of  the  artificial 
distinctions  of  life,  and  felt  quite  indifferent  to 
them — when  alone. 

"  The  ground  in  front  of  my  friend's  house 
slopes  to  the  Hudson,  and  is  still  embellished  with 
trees  of  the  majestic  native  growth.  Wliere  na- 
ture has  left  any  thing  to  be  supplied  by  art,  walks 
have  been  arranged  and  planted ;  but  carefully, 
80  as  not  to  impede  the  view  of  the  river,  which 


238  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

was  now  in  perfect  repose.  A  sloop  lay  in  the 
channel,  its  sails  all  furled,  idly  floating  on  Ihe 
slumbering  surface.  While  I  was  wishing  my 
friend  were  with  me,  for  I  am  too  much  of  a 
Frenchman  to  relish  fully  even  nature,  the  fa- 
vourite companion  of  sentimentalists,  in  solitude, 
I  saw  a  boat  put  off  from  the  little  vessel,  and 
row  slowly  towards  the  shore.  Presently  a  sweet 
female  voice  swelled  on  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
accompanied  by  the  notes  of  a  guitar,  struck  by 
a  practised  hand.  Could  any  young  man's  mer- 
cury resist  moonlight  and  such  music?  Mine 
could  not,  and  I  very  soon  left  behind  me  all  of 
terra  firma  that  intervened  between  me  and  the 
siren,  and  ensconced  myself  in  a  deeply  shaded 
nook  at  the  very  water's  edge,  where  I  could  see 
and  hear  without  being  observed.  The  boat  ap- 
proached the  spot  where  I  stood,  and  was  moored 
at  half  a  dozen  yards  from  my  feet ;  but  as  my 
figure  was  in  shadow,  and  sheltered  by  a  thick 
copse  of  hazel  bushes,  I  was  perfectly  concealed, 
while,  by  a  flood  of  moonbeams,  that  poured  on 
my  unsuspicious  neighbours,  1  saw  them  as  plain- 
ly as  if  it  were  daylight.  These  were  two  men, 
whom  I  soon  ascertained  to  be  the  captain  of  the 
sloop  and  an  attendant,  and  that  they  were  going 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  239 

to  a  farm  house  in  the  neighbourhood  for  eggs, 
milk,  &c.  The  two  females  were  to  remain  in  the 
boat  till  their  return.  The  lady  of  the  guitar  was 
inclined  to  go  with  them  as  far  as  the  oak  wood 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill  j  but  the  captain  persua- 
ded her  to  remain  in  the  boat,  by  telling  her  there 
was  a  formidable  dog  on  the  place,  which  she 
might  encounter.  As  soon  as  the  captain  was 
gone,  her  companion,  an  elderly,  staid  looking 
country  woman,  said  to  her,  '  Now,  child,  as  I 
came  here  for  your  pleasure,  you  must  sing  for 
mine.  None  of  your  new-fangled  fancies,  but 
good  Old  Robin  Grey.' 

" '  Oh,  Robin  Grey  is  a  doleful  ditty ;  but  any- 
thing to  reward  you  for  indulging  me  in  coming 
on  shore.' 

'She  then  sung  that  touching  ballad.  The 
English,  certainly  the  Scotch,  excel  us  as  much 
in  the  pathos  of  unembellished  nature  and  truth, 
as  we  do  them  in  all  literary  refinement,  inge- 
nuity, and  grace.  I  know  not  how  much  of  the 
tribute  that  gushed  from  my  heart  was  paid  to 
the  poetry  and  music,  and  how  much  to  the 
beautiful  organ  by  which  they  were  expressed, 
for  the  fair  musician  looked  herself  like  one  of 
the  bright  creations  of  poetry.     I  would  describe 


240  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

her,  but  description  is  cold  and  quite  inadequate 
to  convey  an  idea  of  her,  and  of  the  scene  with 
which  she  harmonized.  It  was  one  of  nature's 
sweetest  accords;  the  balmy  air,  the  cloudless 
sky,  the  river,  reflecting  like  a  spotless  mirror  the 
blue  arch,  the  moon  and  her  bright  train ;  my  en- 
chantress,  the  embodied  spirit  of  the  evening,  and 
her  music  the  voice  of  nature.  I  might  have  for- 
gotten that  I  was  m  human  mould,  but  I  had  one 
eifectual  curb  to  my  imagination,  one  mortal  an- 
noyance. Argus,  confound  him !  had  followed 
me  from  the  house,  and  it  was  only  by  dint  of 
continued  coaxing  and  caressing  that  I  could  keep 
him  quiet.  Before  the  ballad  was  finished,  how- 
ever, he  was  soothed  by  its  monotonous  sadness, 
and  crouching  at  my  feet,  he  fell  asleep,  I  believe. 
I  forgot  him.  Suddenly  '  the  dainty  spirit' 
changed  from  the  low  breathings  of  melancholy 
to  a  gay  French  air— the  very  air,  Berville,  that 
Claudine,  in  her  mirthful  moments,  used  to  sing 
to  us.  The  transition  was  so  abrupt  that  it  seemed 
as  if  the  wing  of  joy  had  swept  over  the  strings 
of  her  instrument.  I  started  forth  from  my  con- 
cealment. That  was  not  all.  Argus  sprang  out, 
too,  and  barking  furiously,  bounded  towards  the 
boat.     The  old  woman  screamed,   '  There  is  the 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  241 

dog!'  and  the  young  lady,  not  less  terrified, 
dropped  her  guitar,  and,  unhooking  the  boat,  she 
seized  an  oar  and  pushed  it  off  without  listening 
to  my  apologies  and  assurances.  In  her  agitation 
she  dropped  the  oar,  and  her  companion,  still 
more  tremulous  than  herself,  in  her  attempt  to 
regain  it,  lost  the  other,  which  she  had  instinctive- 
ly grasped.  As  soon  as  the  first  impulse  impart- 
ed to  the  boat  was  expended,  it  scarcely  moved 
at  all,  and  I  had  leisure  to  explain  my  sudden  ap- 
pearance, and  to  say  that  my  dog,  far  from  being 
the  formidable  animal  they  imagined,  was  a 
harmless  spaniel,  w^ho  should  immediately  make 
all  the  amends  in  his  power  for  the  terror  he  had 
caused.  I  then  directed  him  to  the  floating  oars. 
He  plunged  into  the  water  and  brought  them  to 
me,  but  he  either  did  not,  or  would  not  under- 
stand my  wish  that  he  should  convey  them  to  the 
boat,  which,  though  very  slowly,  was  evidently 
receding  from  the  shore.  1  then,  w^ithout  farther 
hesitation,  threw  off  my  coat,  swam  to  the  boat, 
and  receiving  there  the  oars  from  Argus's  mouth, 
I  soon  reconducted  the  boat  to  its  haven.  There 
was  something  enchanting  to  me  in  the  frankness 
with  which  my  fair  musician  expressed  her  plea- 
sure at  the  homage  I  had  involuntarily  paid  to  her 

21 


242  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

art,  and  the  grace  with  which  she  received  the 
shght  service  I  rendered  her.  Perhaps  I  felt  it 
the  more  for  the  mortifying  experience  of  the 
day.  I  do  not  care  very  nicely  to  analyze  my 
feelings,  nor  to  ascertain  how  much  there  was  of 
restored  self  complacency  in  the  delicious  excite- 
ment of  that  hour. 

"  The  elderly  lady,  for  lady  she  must  needs  be, 
since  my  fair  incognita  called  her  mother,  ex- 
pressed a  matronly  solicitude  about  the  effect  of 
my  wet  garments,  but  I  assured  her  that  I  appre- 
hended no  inconvenience  from  them,  and  I  begged 
to  be  allowed  to  remain  at  my  station  till  the  re- 
turn of  their  attendants.  The  circumstances  of 
our  mtroduction  had  been  such  as  to  dissipate  all 
ceremony.  Indeed,  this  characteristic  of  English 
manners,  would  have  as  ill  fitted  the  trustful,  in- 
genuous, and  gay  disposition  of  my  new  acquaint- 
ance, as  a  coat  of  mail  her  light,  graceful  person. 
She  sung,  at  my  request,  our  popular  opera  airs, 
with  more  effect,  because  with  far  more  feehng, 
than  our  best  professed  artists.  She  talked  of 
music,  and  of  the]  poetry  of  nature,  with  genius 
and  taste ;  and  she  listened  with  that  eager  and 
pleased  attention,  which  is  the  second  best  gift  of 
conversation.    I  should  have  taken  no  note  of  the 


ROMANCE    IN    REAL    LIFE.  243 

passage  of  time  but  for  the  fidgetting  of  the  old 
lady,  who  often  interrupted  us  with  expressions 
of  her  concern  at  the  captain's  delay,  for  which 
he,  quite  too  soon,  appeared  to  render  an  account 
himself.  As  I  was  compelled  to  take  my  leave, 
I  asked  my  fair  unknown  if  I  might  not  be  al- 
lowed to  think  of  her  by  some  more  accurate 
designation  than  the  '  Lady  of  the  Guitar.' 

" '  My  name  is' — she  replied  promptly,  and 
then,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  added,  '  No — 
pardon  me,  your  romantic  designation  better  suits 
the  adventure  of  the  night.'  I  was  vexed  at  my 
disappointment,  but  she  chased  away  the  shade 
of  displeasure  by  the  graceful  playfulness  with 
which  she  kissed  her  hand  to  me  as  the  boat 
pushed  off.  I  lingered  on  the  shore  till  she  had 
reached  the  vessel,  and  then  slowly  retraced 
my  steps  towards  the  house.  I  was  startled  by 
meeting  my  friend,  for  my  mind  was  so  absorb- 
ed that  I  had  not  heard  his  approaching  footstep. 
'Ah!'  he  exclaimed,  'is  this  your  philosophy? 
turned  misanthrope  at  the  first  frown  from  the 
world  V 

"'My  philosophy,'  I  replied,  'has  neither 
been  vanquished,  nor  has  it  conquered,  for  I  had 
forgotten  all  its  trials'. 


344  ROMANCE    IN   REAL    LIFE. 

"  My  friend  evidently  believed,  notwithstanding 
my  disclaimer,  that  my  vanity  required  some  in- 
demnity for  the  humiliations  it  had  sustained,  and 
he  repeated  to  me  some  assuaging  compliments 
from  his  father.  'But,'  he  concluded,  'tell  me, 
have  you  really  turned  sentimentalist,  and  been 
holding  high  converse  with  the  stars  V 

" '  With  a  most  brilliant  star,'  I  replied,  and  rela- 
ted my  adventure. 

"  Ellison's  curiosity  was  excited,  and  he  propo- 
sed we  should  take  our  flutes,  go  out  in  the  barge, 
and  serenade  the  'Lady  of  the  Guitar.'  I,  of 
course,  assented,  and  the  next  half  hour  found  us 
floating  around  the  little  vessel  like  humble  satel- 
lites. We  played  an  accompaniment  and  sung 
alternately,  he  in  English,  and  I  in  French  ;  but 
there  was  no  token  given  that  the  oflfered  incense 
was  accepted;  no  salutation,  save  a  coarse  one 
from  the  captain,  who  invited  us  to  go  '  on  board 
and  take  some  grog.''  We  of  course  declined 
his  professional  courtesy,  '  Then,  for  the  Lord's 
sake,  lads,'  he  said,  '  stop  your  piping,  and  give 
us  a  good  birth.  Sleep,  at  this  time  o'  night,  is 
better  music  than  the  j  oiliest  tune  that  ever  was 
played.' 

"  Thus  dismissed,  and  discomfited  by  the  lady's 


ROMANCE    IN    REAL    LIFE.  245 

neglect,  we  resumed  our  oars,  and  were  preparing 
to  return  to  the  shore,  when  the  cabin  window 
was  gently  raised,  and  our  fair  incognita  sung 
a  sweet  little  French  air,  beginning  ^  Adieu, 
adieu  P  We  remained,  'sound,  motion,  almost 
breath  suspended,  till  the  song  was  finished.' 

'  So  sweetly  she  bids  us  adieu, 
I  think  that  she  bids  us  return.' 

said  my  friend,  and  we  instantly  rowed  our  boat 
towards  the  stern  of  the  vessel.  At  this  moment 
the  sash  was  suddenly  dropped,  and  taking  this 
for  a  definitive  '  Good  night,'  we  retired. 

"  Now,  dear  Berville,  I  have  faithfully  related 
the  adventures  of  my  masquerade — my  boyish 
pastime,  you  may  call  it.  Be  it  so.  This  day 
has  been  worth  a  year  of  care  and  dignity.  I  shall 
return  to  New- York  in  a  few  days.  Till  then, 
farewell.    Yours, 

"  Constant." 

But  though  M.  Constant  professed  himself  sa- 
tisfied with  his  day,  there  was  a  lurking  disquie- 
tude at  his  heart.  He  had  written  to  assure  him- 
self there  was  nothing  there  he  dare  not  express, 
and  yet  he  had  concluded  without  once  alluding 

21* 


246  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

to  the  cause  of  his  self-reproach.  He  had  folded 
the  letter,  but  he  opened  it,  and  added  ; — 

"  P.  S.  I  did  not  describe  to  you  my  friend's 
vexation  that  the  responded  song  was  in  French. 
*  Ah !'  said  he,  '  I  see  there  is  no  chance  for  such 
poor  devils  as  I.  so  long  as  you  are  neither  mar- 
ried nor  betrothed.'' " 

He  again  closed  the  letter,  and  was  for  a  mo- 
ment satisfied  that  there  could  be  nothing  in  the 
nature  of  that  which  he  had  so  frankly  commu- 
nicated that  required  concealment.  He  walked 
to  the  window  and  eyed  the  little  vessel  as  a  miser 
looks  at  the  casket  that  contains  his  treasure  ; 
then  starting  from  his  reverie,  he  took  from  his 
bosom  a  miniature,  and  contemplated  it  steadfast- 
ly for  a  few  moments ;  "  It  is  my  conscience  that 
reproaches  me,"  he  said,  "  and  not  this  serene,  be- 
nign countenance.  O  Emma  !  thou  art  equally 
incapable  of  inflictmg  and  resenting  "wrong,  and 
shall  thy  trust  and  gentleness  be  returned  by  even 
a  transient  treachery  ?  Am  I  so  sure  of  faithfully 
keeping  the  citadel  that  I  may  parley  with  an 
enemy  V 

The  result  of  this  self-examination  was  a  deter- 
mination to  burn  the  letter,  and  to  dismiss  for- 
ever from  his  mind  the  enchantress  whose  power 


ROMANCE   IN    REAL   LIFE.  247 

had  so  swayed  him  from  his  loyalty.  But  though 
he  turned  from  the  window,  resolutely  closed  the 
blind,  and  excluded  the  moonlight,  which  he  fan- 
cied influenced  his  imagination  as  if  he  were  a 
lunatic;  though  he  went  to  bed  and  sunk  into 
oblivious  sleep,  the  spirit  was  not  laid.  Imagina- 
tion revelled  in  its  triumph  over  the  will.  He  was 
in  France,  in  beautiful  France— more  beautiful 
now  than  in  the  visions  of  memory  and  affection. 
He  was  at  his  remembered  haunts  in  his  father's 
grounds  ;  the  "Lady  of  the  Guitar"  was  with  him; 
she  sang  his  favourite  songs ;  he  saw  her  spark- 
ling glance,  her  glowing  cheek,  her  rich,  dark 
tints, 

"  Tlie  embrowning  of  the  fruit  that  tell3 

How  rich  within,  the  soul  of  sweetness  dwells ;" 

he  heard  the  innocent  childlike  laugh,  that, 

"without  any  control, 

Save  the  sweet  one  of  gracefulness  wrung  from  her  soul." 

Then  there  was  interposed  between  him  and  this 
embodied  spirit  of  his  joyous  clime  a  slowly  mo- 
ving figure;  a  cold,  fair,  pensive  countenance, 
that  had  more  of  sorrow  than  resentment,  but 


^248  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

«till,  though  its  reproach  was  gentle,  it  was  the  re- 
proach of  the  stem  spectre  of  conscience.    He 
east  doAVTi  his  eyes,  and  they  fell  on  the  word 
'"  BETROTHED,"  traccd  in  the  sand  at  his  feet.  The 
•"  Lady  of  the  Guitar"  was  gaily  advancing  to- 
wards him.  Another  step,  and  her  flowing  mantle 
would  have  swept  over  the  wwd,  and  effaced  it  for- 
-ever.    He  raised  his  hand  to  deprecate  her  ap- 
proach, and  awoke ;  and  while  the  visions  of  sleep 
still  confusedly  mingled  with  the  recollections  and 
resolutions  of  the  preceding  day,  he  was  up  and 
at  the  window;  had  thrown  open  the  blind,  and 
•ascertained  that  the  vessel  still  lay  becalmed  in 
the  stream.     That  virtue  is  certainly  to  be  envied, 
that  does  not  need  to  be  shielded  and  fortified  by 
opportunity  and  circumstance.     If  the  vessel  had 
disappeared,    the    recollections  of  the  evening 
might  have  been  as  evanescent  and  meffectual  as 
the  dreams  of  the  night ;  but  there  it  was,  in  fine 
relief,  and  as  motionless  as  if  it  were  encased  in 
the  blue  waters.    I]i  spite  of  M.  Constant's  excel- 
lent resolutions,  he  lingered  at  the  window,  and 
returned  there  as  if  he  were  spellbound.   Strange 
power  that  could  rivet  his  eyes  to  an  ill  shapen  lit- 
tle Dutch  skipper !    But  that  body  did  contain  a 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE,  249 

spirit,  and  that  spirit,  seemingly  as  perturbed  as  his 
own,  soon  appeared,  moving  with  a  light  step  to 
and  fro  on  the  deck. 

The  apartment  M.  Constant  occupied,  was  fur- 
nished, among  other  luxuries,  with  a  fine  spy- 
glass. To  resist  using  this  facility  for  closer 
communion  was  impossible ;  and  by  its  aid  he 
could  perceive  every  motion  of  "  the  lady  of  his 
thoughts,"  almost  the  changes  of  her  countenance. 
He  saw  she  was  gazing  on  the  shore,  and  that  she 
turned  eagerly  to  her  companion,  to  point  her  at- 
tention to  some  object  that  had  caught  her  eye, 
and,  at  the  same  moment,  he  perceived  it  was  his 
friend,  who  was  strolling  on  the  shore.  Ellison 
saw  him  too,  and  waved  his  handkerchief  in  salu- 
tation. M.  Constant  returned  the  greeting,  threw 
do\vn  the  glass,  and  withdrew  from  the  window 
with  a  feeling  of  compunction  at  his  indulgence, 
as  if  he  had  again  heard  that  word  betrothed 
spoken.  Why  is  it  that  external  agents  have  so 
much  influence  over  the  mysterious  operations 
of  conscience  ?  Why  is  it  that  its  energy  so  often 
sleeps  while  there  is  no  witness  to  the  wrong  we 
commit  ?  "  Keep  thy  heart,  for  out  of  it  are  the 
issues  of  life." 

After  breakfast,  Ellison  said  to  M.  Constant,     I 


250  ROMANCE    IN    REAL    LIFE. 

■am  afraid  you  find  your  masquerade  dull.  Let 
lis  beguile  the  morning  by  a  visit  to  your  '  Lady 
of  the  Guitar.'  There  is  nothing  lends  such  wings 
•to  time  as  a  pretty  girl.  Our  guests  are  a  dull 
concern." 

"  A  dull  concern,  when  there  is  a  beauty  and  a 
fortune  among  them?" 

"  Yes,  a  sated  belle  is  to  me  as  disagreeable  as 
a  pampered  child  ;  as  my  gi-andmother's  little  pet, 
Rosy,  whom  I  saw  the  other  day,  tossing  away 
her  sugar  plums,  and  crying,  '  Tis  not  sweet 
enough ;'  and  as  to  fortune,  though  I  am  neither  a 
philosopher  nor  a  sentimentalist,  I  shall  never  take 
the  temple  of  Hymen  in  my  way  to  wealth  ;  for  of 
all  speculations,  a  matrimonial  speculation  seems 
to  me  the  most  hazardous,  and  the  most  disgrace- 
ful. But  we  loiter.  Will  you  pay  your  devoirs 
to  our  unknown  ?" 

"I  believe  not;  I  have  letters  to  write  this 
morning." 

**  To  Emma  1  Pardon  me— I  do  not  mean  to 
pry  into  your  cabinet,  but  if  the  letters  are  to  her 
they  may  be  deferred.  She  is  a  dear  good  soul, 
and  will  find  twenty  apologies  for  every  fault  you 
commit." 

"  If  they  are  to  her,  such  generosity  should  not 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  2M 

be  abused.  No,  I  will  not  go.  But  on  what  pre- 
text will  you  ?" 

"  Pretext,  indeed !  does  a  pilgrim  seek  for  a  pre- 
text to  visit  my  Lady  of  Loretto,  or  the  shrine  of 
any  other  saint  ?  Here  comes  the  gardener  with 
a  basket  of  fine  fruit  which  I  have  ordered  to  be 
prepared,  and  of  which  1  shall  be  the  bearer  to 
the  sufferers  pent  in  that  dirty  sloop  this  breath- 
less August  morning — from  mere  philanthropy, 
you  know.  Commend  me  to  Emma,"  he  added, 
gaily ;  "  I  will  bear  witness  for  you  that  your  en- 
thusiasm for  this  unknown  was  a  mere  coup  de 
la  lune,  and  that,  when  daylight  appeared,  you 
were  as  loyal,  and — as  dull  as  a  married  man." 

Ellison's  raillery  did  not  render  the  bitter  piH 
of  self-denial  more  palatable  to  M.  Constant.  He 
turned  away  without  reply,  but,  instead  of  return- 
ing to  his  apartment,  he  obtained  a  gun,  and  in- 
quiring the  best  direction  to  pursue  in  quest  of 
game,  he  sauntered  into  a  wooded  defile,  that 
wound  among  the  hills,  and  was  so  enclosed 
by  them  as  not  to  afford  even  a  glimpse  of  the 
river..  Here  he  threw  himself  on  the  grass,  took  a 
blank  leaf  from  his  pocket  book,  and  began  a  son- 
net to  constancy,  but  broke  off  in  the  middle  j 
scribbled  half  a  dozen  odd  lines  from  the  differen$ 


ft 


253  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

songs  that  had  entranced  him  on  the  precedmg 
evening;  sketched  a  guitar;  then  rose,  and,  still 
musing,  pursued  his  way  up  the  defile.  The 
path  he  had  taken  led  him  around  the  base  of  an 
eminence  to  a  rivulet  that  came  frolicking  down 
a  hill,  now  leaping,  and  now  loitering  with  the 
capricious  humour  of  childhood.  He  traced  it  to 
its  source,  a  clear  fountain,  bubbling  up  from  the 
earth,  at  the  foot  of  a  high  precipitous  rock. 
Clusters  of  purple  and  pink  wild  flowers  hung 
from  the  clefts  of  the  rocks,  wreathing  its  bare 
old  front,  and  presenting  a  beautiful  harmony  in 
contrast,  like  infancy  and  old  age.  The  rock  and 
the  sides  of  the  fountain  formed  a  little  amphi- 
theatre, enclosed  and  deeply  shaded  by  the  moun- 
tain ash,  the  aromatic  hemlock,  and  the  lofty  bass- 
wood.  This  sequestered  retreat,  with  its  fresh 
aspect  and  sweet  exhalations,  afforded  a  delicious 
refuge  from  the  fierce  heat  and  overpowering 
light  of  an  August  day.  M.  Constant  was  linger- 
ing to  enjoy  it,  when  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of 
distant  and  animated  voices.  He  started,  and  for 
a  moment  thought  himself  cheated  by  the  illu- 
sions of  a  distempered  fancy ;  but  as  the  sounds 
approached  nearer,  he  was  assured  of  their  re- 
ality, and  they  affected  him  like  the  most  pain- 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  253 

fill  discord,  tlioiigli  they  were  produced  by  the 
sweet,  clear,  penetrating  voice  of  the  unknown,  and 
the  hitherto  welcome  tones  of  his  friend. 

The  impropriety  of  a  young  girl  straying  off 
into  such  a  solitude  with  an  acquaintance  of  an 
hour  was  obvious,  but  was,  perhaps,  more  shock- 
ing to  M.  Constant  than  it  would  have  been  to  a 
perfectly  disinterested  observer.  It  gave  a  dread- 
ful jar  to  his  preconceived  notions,  and  contrasted 
rudely  enough  with  the  conduct  of  the  preceding 
night,  when  the  lady  had,  with  such  scrupulous 
delicacy,  forborne  to  show  herself  on  the  deck  of 
the  sloop.  As  they  drew  nearer,  he  thought  there 
was  something  in  the  gay,  familiar  tones  of  Elli- 
son, disgusting ;  and  the  laugh  of  the  lady,  which 
before  had  seemed  the  sweetest  music  of  a  youth- 
ful and  innocent  spirit,  was  now  harsh  and  hoy- 
denisli.  The  strain .  of  their  conversation,  too, 
for  they  were  near  enough  to  be  heard  distinctly, 
while  the  windings  of  the  path  prevented  his 
being  seen,  though  it  was  graceful  chit-chat 
enough,  appeared  to  him  trifling  and  flippant  in 
the  extreme.  As  they  came  still  nearer,  he  lis- 
tened more  intently,  for  he  had  a  personal  interest 
in  the  subject. 

"  And  so,  my  '  Lady  of  the  Guitar,'  "  said  EIH- 

22 


254  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

Bon, "  yon  persist  in  preserving  that  scrap  of  paper 
merely,  I  presume,  as  a  specimen  of  the  sister 
arts  of  design  and  poetry.  You  are  sure  those 
scratches  are  meant  for  a  guitar,  and  not  a  jews- 
harp,  and  that  the  fragment  is  a  sonnet,  and  not 
a  monody." 

"Certainly,  it  is  a  sonnet;  the  poet  says  so 
himself.     See  here—'  Sonnet  a  la  Constance:  " 

"  Well,  it  is  certainly  in  the  strain  of  a  '  la- 
ment.' My  friend  was  in  a  strait ;  what  he  would 
do,  he  could  not.  Constancy  is  a  very  pretty 
theme  for  a  boarding-school  letter,  but  I  am  afraid 
the  poor  fellow  will  not  find  his  inspiration  in  this 
tame  virtue  ?" 

"  Ah !  these  tame  virtues,  as  you  call  them," 
rephed  the  lady,  "  are  the  salutary  food  of  life, 
while  your  themes  of  inspiration  are  intoxica- 
ting draughts,  violent  and  transient  in  their  ef- 
fects." 

"  A  very  sage  lesson,  and  very  well  conned. 
Did  your  grandmother  teach  it  to  you  ?" 

"  No  matter— I  have  got  it  by  heart." 

"  O,  those  moral  New-Englanders,  they  change 
all  the  poetry  of  life  to  wise  saws.  Thank  hea- 
ven, you  have  escaped  from  them  in  time  to  re- 
tain some  portion  of  your  original  mercurial  na- 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE.  255 

ture.  But  now  let  me  tell  you,  my  sage  yomig 
friend,  that  same  paper  may  prove  as  dangerous 
where  you  are  going  as  a  match  to  a  magazine. 
So,  let  me  advise  you,  either  keep  it  quite  to  your- 
self, or  give  it  to  the  winds.-' 

"  You  talk  riddles,  Mr.  Ellison  3  but  I  will  not 
be  quizzed  into  believing  this  little  castaway  scrap 
of  paper  can  be  of  any  import." 

"  Let  me  label  it  for  you  then,  if,  as  I  see,  it  is 
to  be  filed  among  the  precious  stores  of  your 
pocket  book." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  when  the  lady,  as  M. 
Constant  supposed,  looking  over  Ellison's  super- 
scription, read  aloud,  "  Love's  Labour  Lost,"  and 
then  exclaimed,  "  Pshav/,  Robert,  how  absurd  !" 
and  tore  off  the  offensive  label,  while  he  laughed 
at  her  vexation. 

M.  Constant  felt  that  it  would  be  very  embar- 
rassing for  him  to  be  discovered  as  a  passive 
listener  to  this  conversation.  He  had  been  chain- 
ed to  the  spot  by  an  interest  that  he  would 
gladly  not  have  felt,  but  which  he  could  not  sup- 
press. 

Another  turn  would  bring  them  directly  be- 
fore him.  To  delay  longer  without  bemg  seen 
was  therefore  impossible.  As  he  put  aside  the 
rustling  branches,  he  heard  Ellison  exclaim,  "Hal 


250  ROMANCE   IN   REAL    LIFE. 

there  are  some  startled  quails  ;"  but  before  his 
friend  could  take  a  more  accurate  observation,  he 
had  sprung  around  an  angle  of  the  rock,  and  was 
beyond  sight  and  hearing. 

The  gentlemen  met  before  dinner.  M.  Con- 
stant was  walking  on  the  piazza,  apparently- 
moody  and  little  disposed  to  Sympathise  with  El- 
lison's extravagant  expressions  of  admiration  of 
the  unknown,  or  of  regret  that  the  fresh  breeze 
was  now  wafting  the  vessel  and  its  precious  cargo 
far  away. 

"  In  the  name  of  heaven,  Constant,'^  he  said, 
"  what  has  so  suddenly  turned  you  to  ice?  Last 
night  you  seemed  to  think  it  necessary  to  inven 
— pardon  me — allege  some  apology  for  your 
prompt  sensibility,  and  you  said  it  was  not  the 
beauty,  the  voice,  the  grace,  or  any  of  the  obvious 
and  sufficient  charms  of  this  young  enchantress— 
that  was  your  word— that  fascinated  you,  but  it 
was  a  resemblance  to  the  globing  beauties  oi 
your  own  clime  ;  and  now,  if  you  had  been  born 
at  the  north  pole,  and  she  at  the  equator,  you 
could  not  manifest  less  affinity." 

"  There  are  certain  principles,"  replied  M. 
Constant,  coldly,  "  that  overcome  natural  affini- 
ties. I  hope  you  have  passed  your  morning 
agreeably?" 


ROMANCE    IX    REAL    LIFE.  257 

*'  Agreeably  ?  delightfully  !  Our  incognita  is 
more  beautiful  than  you  described  her." 

"  Is  she  then  still  incognita  to  you  ?"  asked  M. 
Constant,  with  a  penetrating  glance. 

"  Not  exactly  ;  she  favoured  me  with  her 
name." 

"  Her  name !  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,  I  am  under  a  prohibition  not  to 
tell." 

"The  lady  certainly  makes  marked  distinc- 
tions. She  is  as  reserved  towards  others,  as  frank 
to  you." 

"  She  had  her  reasons." 

"  Doubtless,  but  what  were  they  ?" 

"  AVhy,  one  was,  that  I  refused  to  tell  her  your 
name." 

"  And  why  did  you  that  ?" 

"  I  had  my  reasons  too." 

M.  Constant  was  vexed  at  the  mystery  his 
friend  affected.  He  was  annoyed,  too,  at  his  per- 
fect self  complacency  and  imperturbable  good  na- 
ture, and,  more  than  all,  ashamed  of  his  own  irri- 
tability. He  made  an  effort  to  overcome  it,  and 
to  put  himself  on  a  level  with  Ellison.  He  suc- 
ceeded so  far  in*  his  efforts,  as  to  continue  to  talk 
of  the  lady  with  apparent  noncTialance,  till  he 

22* 


258  ROMANCE   IN   REAL   LIFE. 

was  summoned  to  dinner ;  but,  tliough  he  tried 
every  mode  his  ingenuity  could  devise,  he  could 
not  draw  from  his  friend  the  slightest  allusion  to 
the  lady's  extraordinary  visit  to  the  shore,  or  any 
particular  of  their  interview,  which  explained  the 
perfect  familiarity  that  seemed  to  exist  between 
them;  and  what  made  tliis  mystery  more  inscru- 
table, was  the  tone  of  enthusiasm  which  Ehison 
maintained  in  speaking  of  the  lady,  and  which 
no  young  man  sincerely  feels  without  a  sentiment 
of  respect. 

In  c:;ite  of  M.  Constant's  virtuous  resolutions 
and  efforts,  the  "Lady  of  the  Guitar"  continued 
to  occupy  his  imagination,  and  he  determined  to 
take  the  surest  measures  to  dispel  an  influence 
which  he  had  in  vain  resisted.  As  he  parted 
from  his  friend  at  night,  he  announced  his  inten- 
tion of  taking  his  departure  the  following  morn- 
ing. After  expressing  his  sincere  regret,  Ellison 
said,  "  You  go  immediately  to  town  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  go  to  Mp.  Liston's." 

«Ah!  is  it  so?" 

"  Even  so,  Ellison ;  but  no  more  till  we  meet 
again.  I  have  supported  my  masquerade  with 
little  spirit ;  but  do  not  betray  me,  and  we,  nei- 
ther of  us,  shall  lose  reputation." 


i^U3IANCE    IN    REAL    LIFE.  259 

M.  Constant  had  for  a  long  time  been  on  terms 
of  intimacy  and  friendship  with  Miss  Liston. 
Tliis  lady  belonged  to  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished families  in  our  country.  She  was  agree- 
able in  her  person,  had  a  fund  of  good  sense,  was 
well  informed,  and  perfectly  amiable.  Such  cha- 
racters are  admirable  in  the  conduct  of  life,  if  not 
exciting  to  the  imagination  ;  that  precious  faculty, 
which,  like  the  element  of  fire,  the  most  powerful 
and  dangerous  agent,  may  warm  or  may  con- 
sume us.  Long  and  intimate  friendship  between 
unfettered  persons  of  different  sexes  is  very  likely 
to  terminate,  as  that  of  JM.  Constant  and  Miss  Lis- 
ton terminated,  in  an  engagement. 

He  had  a  sentiment  of  deep  and  fixed  affection 
for  her,  which,  probably,  no  influence  could  have 
materially  affected  ;  but  when  that  being  crossed 
his  path,  who  seemed  to  him  to  realize  the  bright- 
est visions  of  his  youth,  he  felt  a  secret  conscious- 
ness that  the  fidelity  of  his  affection  was  endan- 
gered. The  little  mystery  in  which  the  unknown 
was  shrouded,  the  very  circumstance  of  calling 
her  "  the  unknown,"  magnified  the  importance  of 
the  affair,  as  objects  are  enlarged,  seen  through  a 
mist.  He  very  wisely  and  prudently  concluded 
that  the  surest  way  of  dispelling  all  illusion,  would 


260  ROMANCE   IN   REAL   LIFE. 

be  frankly  to  relate  the  particulars  to  Miss  Lis- 
ten, only  reserving  to  himself  certain  feelings 
which  would  not  be  to  her  edification,  and  which 
he  believed  would  be  dispelled  by  participating 
their  cause  with  her.     Accordingly,  at  their  first 
meeting,  he  was  meditating  how  he  should  get 
over  the  embarrassment  of  introducing  the  sub- 
ject, when  Miss  Listen  said,  "I  have  a  great  plea- 
sure in  reserve  for  you,"  and  left  him  without 
any  farther  explanation,  and  in  a  few  moments 
returned,  followed  by  a  lady,  and  saying  as  she 
re-entered,  "Marie  Angely,  you, and  Constant,  my 
best  friends,  must  not  meet  as  strangers."    A  half 
suppressed  exclamation  burst  from  the  lips  of 
both.     All  M.  Constant's  habitual  grace  forsook 
him.     He  overturned  Miss  Listen's  workstand, 
workbox,  and  working  paraphernalia,  in  advan- 
cing to  make  his  bow.     Miss  Angely's  naturally 
high  colour  was  heightened  to  a  painful  excess: 
she  made  an  effort  to  reciprocate  the  common 
courtesies  of  an  introduction,  but  in  vain;   the 
words  fahered  on  her  lips,  and  after  struggling  a 
moment  with  opposing  feelings,  the  truth  and 
simplicity  of  her  heart  triumpned,  and,  turning 
to  Miss  Listen,  she  said,  "Your  friend,  Emma,  is 
the  gentleman  I  met  on  the  river." 


ROMANCE   IN   REAL   LIFE.  261 

Miss  Listen  had  been  the  confidant  of  all  ner 
romantic  young  friend's  impressions  from  her 
moonhght  interview  with  the  stranger,  and  it  was 
now  her  turn  to  suffer  a  full  share  of  the  embar- 
rassment of  the  other  parties.  She  looked  to  M. 
Constant  for  an  explanation.  Never  had  he,  m 
the  whole  course  of  his  diplomatic  career,  been 
more  puzzled ;  but  after  a  moment's  hesitation 
he  followed  Miss  Angely  in  the  safe  path  of  in- 
genuousness, and  truly  told  all  the  particulars  of 
his  late  adventures,  concluding  with  a  goodhu- 
moured  censure  of  his  friend  Ellison,  who  had 
long  and  intimately  knoA\Ti  Miss  Angely,  and  who, 
to  gratify  his  mischief-loving  temper,  had  con- 
trived the  mystery  which  led  to  the  rather  awk- 
ward denouement. 

Thus  these  circumstances,  which  might  have 
been  woven  into  an  intricate  web  of  delicate  em- 
barrassment and  romantic  distress,  that  might 
have  ended  in  the  misery  of  one,  perhaps  of  all 
parties,  were  divested  of  their  interest  and  their 
danger  by  being  promptly  and  frankly  disclosed. 

Miss  Angely,  whom  our  readers  have  already 
recognised  as  the  little  girl  of  the  inn,  had  met 
with  Miss  Liston  at  a  boardnig  school  in  Boston, 
where,  though  Miss  Liston  was  lier  elder  by  se^ 


26'i  ROMANCE    IN    REAL   LIFE. 

veral  years,  they  formed  an  enthusiastic,  and,  rare 
in  the  annals  of  boarding  schools,  an  enduring 
friendship.  Marie  Angely  had  faithfully  discharged 
the  debt  of  gratitude  to  Mrs.  Reynolds,  and  though 
acquiring,  as  may  be  supposed,  somewhat  of  the 
fastidiousness  that  accompanies  refined  education 
and  intercourse,  no  one  could  perceive  any  abate- 
ment of  her  respect  or  affection  for  her  kind  pro- 
tectress, or  the  shghtest  diminution  of  her  famili- 
arity with   her.      She  passed   a  part  of  every 
summer  with  her,  always  called  her  mother,  and, 
by  the  fidelity  of  her  kindness  and  the  charm  of 
her  manner,  she  diffused  light  and  warmth  over 
the  whole  tract  of  Mrs.  Reynolds's  existence. 
She  linked  expectations,  that  might  have  been 
blasted,  to  a  happy  futurity,  and  cherished  and 
elevated  affections,  wdiich,  but  for  her  sunny  in- 
fluence, would  have  been  left  to  wither  and  perish. 
Oh  that  the  fortunate  and  happy  could  know  how 
much  they  have  in  their  gift ! 

Miss  Angely  had  been  on  one  of  her  annual 
visits  to  her  humble  friend,  and  was  on  her  way, 
accompanied  by  her,  to  New-York,  where  she 
was  to  join  Miss  Liston,  when  the  incidents  oc- 
curred which  we  have  related. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  termination  of  our  tal-^ 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE  263 

to  indemnify  the  lover  of  romance  for  its  previous 
diilness  ;  but  it  is  a  true  story,  and  its  materials 
must  be  received  from  tradition,  and  not  supplied 
by  imagination. 

M,  Constant  was,  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks, 
united  to  Miss  Liston.  This  lady  had  long  che- 
rished a  hope  that  her  friend  would  be  a  perma- 
nent member  of  her  family,  and  she  used  every 
art  of  affection  to  persuade  her  to  remain  with 
her  at  least  so  long  as  she  should  decline  the  suits 
of  all  the  lovers  who  were  now  thronging  around 
her,  attracted  by  her  beauty  or  loveliness,  or  the 
eclat  she  derived  from  her  intimacy  with  the  wife 
of  the  ambassador.  M,  Constant  did  not  very 
warmly  second  his  wife's  entreaties.  He  perhaps 
had  a  poignant  recollection  of  certain  elective 
affinities^  and  his  experience  taught  him  the 
truth,  if  indeed  he  had  not  derived  it  from  a  higher 
source,  that,  in  the  present  infirm  condition  of 
hum.an  virtue,  it  is  always  safest  and  best  not  vo- 
luntarily to  "enter  into  temptation." 

Miss  Angely  returned  to  Boston.  M.  Constant's 
union  with  Miss  Liston  was  one  of  uninterrupted 
confidence  and  conjugal  happiness;  but  it  was 
not  destined  to  be  of  long  duration.  His  wife  died 
in  about  a  year  after  their  marriage.    Among  her 


264  ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 

papers  was  found  a  letter  addressed  to  her  hus- 
band, written  in  expectation  of  the  fatal  issue  of 
the  event  that  had  terminated  lier  life,  in  which 
she  earnestly  recommended  her  friend  as  her  suc- 
cessor. In  due  time  her  request  was  honoured. 
M.  Constant  married  Miss  Angely.  After  resi- 
ding for  some  time  in  America,  they  went  to 
France,  where  she  was  received  as  an  ornament 
to  her  noble  family,  and  acknowledged  to  be 
"the  brightest  jewel  in  its  coronet." 

Far  from  the  mean  pride  of  those  who  shrink 
from  recurring  to  the  humble  stages  in  their  pro- 
gress to  the  heights  of  fortune,  Madame  Constant 
delighted  in  relating  the  vicissitudes  of  her  life, 
and  dwelt  particularly  on  that  period,  when,  as 
Mrs.  Reynolds's  handmaid,  she  considered  herself 
honoured  in  standing  behind  the  chair  of  the  wife 
of  the  great  General  Knox.  i 

"  The  longest  day  comes  to  the  vesper  hour."  n 

Madame  Constant  closed  at  Paris  a  life  of  virtue, 
prosperity,  and  happiness,  in  July,  1827. 


CAROLINE  AND  ISABEL. 

BY  CHARLES  WEST  THOMSON. 

L 

Well  such  g:arland  may  ye  twine, 

Isabel  and  Caroline. 

Flowers  of  every  rainbow  hue, 

Roses  bright  and  tulips  gay, 
Daisies,  kissed  bj'  morning  dew, 

Jessamine  and  buds  of  May — 
Aptly  near  your  charms  they  shine, 
Isabel  and  Caroline. 

n. 

Who  your  varied  worth  shall  tell, 
Caroline  and  Isabel  ? 
Fairest  lilies  not  more  fair. 

Sweetest  woodbines  not  more  sweet. 
In  manners  mild,  in  beauty  rare, 

O,  how  in  you  the  graces  meet ! 
Your  thousand  charms  are  like  a  spell, 
Caroline  and  Isabel ! 


CONNECTICUT  RIVER.  265 

CONNECTICUT  RIYER. 

BY  MRS.  SIGOURNEY. 


Fair  River  !  not  unknown  to  classic  song ; — 
Which  still  in  vatying  beauty  roU'st  along, 
Where  first  thy  infant  fount  is  faintly  seen, 
A  line  of  silver  mid  a  fringe  of  green ; 
Or  where,  near  towering  rocks,  thy  bolder  tide, 
To  win  the  giant  guarded  pass  doth  glide ; 
Or  where,  in  azure  mantle  pure  and  free, 
Thou  giv'st  thy  cool  hand  to  the  waiting  sea; — 
Though  broader  streams  our  sister  realms  may  boast 
Herculean  cities  and  a  prouder  coast, 
Yet,  from  the  bound  where  hoarse  St.  Lawrence  roars, 
To  where  La  Plata  rocks  the  sounding  shores ; 
From  where  the  urns  of  slimy  Nilus  shine, 
To  the  blue  waters  of  the  blushing  Rhine  ; 
Or  where  IlUssus  glows  like  diamond  spark, 
Or  sacred  Ganges  whelms  its  votaries  dark  ; 
No  brighter  skies  the  eye  of  day  may  see, 
No  soil  more  verdant,  nor  a  race  more  free. 
— See,  where,  amid  their  cultured  vales,  they  stand. 
The  generous  offspring  of  a  simple  land ; 
Too  rough  for  flattery,  and  all  fear  above, 
King,  priest,  and  prophet  in  the  homes  they  love. 

23 


266  CONNECTICUT  RIVER, 

On  equal  laws  their  aiichor'd  hopes  -ne  stay'd, 

By  all  interpreted,  and  all  obey'd. 

Alike  the  despot,  and  the  slave  they  hate, 

And  rise  firm  columns  of  a  happy  state. 

To  them  content  is  bliss ;  and  labour,  health ; 

And  knowledge,  power ;  and  true  religion,  wealth. 

The  farmer,  here,  with  honest  pleasure  sees 
His  orchards  blushing  to  the  fervid  breeze, 
His  bleating  flocks,  the  shearers  care  who  need, 
His  waving  woods,  the  winter  fire  that  feed. 
His  hardy  steers,  that  break  the  yielding  soil, 
His  patient  sons,  who  aid  their  father's  toil, 
The  ripening  fields,  for  joyous  harshest  drest. 
And  the  white  spire  that  points  a  world  of  rest. 
— His  thrifty  mate,  solicitous  to  bear 
An  equal  burden  in  the  yoke  of  care, 
With  vigorous  arm  the  flying  sliuttle  heaves, 
Or  from  the  press  the  golden  cheese  receives ; 
Her  pastime,  when  the  daily  task  is  o'er. 
With  apron  clean,  to  seek  her  neighbour's  door, 
Partake  the  friendly  feast,  with  social  glow, 
Exchange  the  news,  and  make  the  stocking  grow ; 
Then,  hale  and  cheerful,  to  her  home  repair. 
When  Sol's  slant  ray  renews  her  evening  care, 
Press  the  full  udder  for  her  children's  meal, 
Rock  the  tired  babe,  or  wake  the  tunefiil  wheel. 

See,  toward  yon  dome,  where  village  science  dwells 
What  time  the  warning;  clock  its  sujnniona  swe.Us, 


CONNECTICUT  RIVER.  267 

What  tiny  feet  the  well  known  path  explore, 

And  gaily  gather  from  each  sylvan  door. 

The  new  wean'd  child,  with  mumiur'd  tone  proceeds 

Whom  her  scarce  taller  baby  brother  leads, 

Transferr'd  as  burdens,  that  the  housewife's  care 

May  tend  the  dairy,  or  the  fleece  prepare. 

Light  hearted  group !  who  gambol  wild  and  high. 

The  daisy  pluck,  or  chase  the  butterfly, 

Till  by  some  travellers  wheels  aroused  from  play, 

The  stift' salute,  with  face  demure,  they  pay, 

Bare  the  curl'd  brow,  or  stretch  the  ready  hand, 

The  untutor'd  homage  of  an  artless  land. 

T'he  stranger  marks,  amid  the  joyous  line. 

The  little  baskets  whence  they  hope  to  dine  ; 

And  larger  books,  as  if  their  dexterous  art 

Dealt  most  nutrition  to  the  noblest  part. 

Long  may  it  be,  ere  luxury  teach  the  shame 

To  starve  the  mind,  and  bloat  the  unwieldy  frame  ! 

Scorn  not  this  lowly  race,  ye  sons  of  pride ! 
Their  joys  disparage,  nor  their  hopes  deride; 
From  germs  like  these  have  mighty  statesmen  sprung, 
Of  prudent  counsel,  and  persuasive  tongue ; 
Bold  patriot  souls,  who  ruled  the  willing  throng, 
Their  powerful  nerves  by  early  labour  strong ; 
Inventive  minds,  a  nation's  wealth  that  wrought. 
And  white  hair'd  sages,  skill' d in  studious  thought; 
Chiefs,  who  the  field  of  battle  nobly  trod, 
And  holy  men,  who  fed  the  flock  of  God. 


268  CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 

Here,  mid  the  graves  by  time  so  sacred  made, 
The  poor,  lost  Indian  slumbers  in  the  shade ; 
He  whose  canoe  with  arrowy  swiftness  clave. 
In  ancient  days,  yon  pure  cerulean  wave  ; 
Son  of  that  spirit,  whom  in  storms  he  traced. 
Through  darkness  followed,  and  in  death  embraced — 
He  sleeps  an  outlaw,  mid  his  forfeit  land, 
And  grasps  the  arrow  in  his  moulder'd  hand. 
Here,  too,  those  warrior  sires  with  honour  rest, 
Who  bared  in  freedom's  cause  the  valiant  breast. 
Sprang  from  their  half  drawn  furrow,  as  the  cry 
Of  threaten' d  liberty  came  thrilling  by, 
Look'd  to  their  God,  and  rear'd  in  bulwark  round 
Breasts  free  from  guile,  and  hands  with  toil  embrown' d, 
And  bade  a  monarch's  thousand  banners  yield — 
Firm  at  the  plough,  and  glorious  in  the  field ; 
Lo  !  here  they  rest,  who  every  danger  braved, 
Unmark'd,  untrophied,  'mid  the  soil  they  saved. 

Round  scenes  like  these,  doth  warm  remembrance  glide, 
Where  emigration  rolls  its  ceaseless  tide. 
On  western  wilds  which  thronging  hordes  explore,        \ 
Or  ruder  Erie's  serpent  haunted  shore. 
Or  far  Huron,  by  unshorn  forests  crown'd, 
Or  red  Missouri's  unfrequented  bound. 
The  exiled  man,  when  midnight  shades  invade, 
Couch'd  in  his  hut,  or  camping  on  the  glade, 
Starts  from  his  dream,  to  catch,  in  echoes  clear, 
The  boatman's  song  that  pleas'd  his  boyish  ear; 


I 


CONNECTICUT  RIVER.  200 

While  the  sad  mother,  raid  her  children's  mirth, 
Paints  with  fond  tears  a  parent's  distant  hearth, 
Or  charms  her  rustic  babes  with  tender  tales 
Of  thee, blest  River  !  and  thy  velvet  vales  ; 
Her  native  cot,  where  ripening  berries  swell, 
The  village  school,  and  sabbath's  holy  bell; 
And  smiles  to  see  the  infant  soul  expand 
With  proud  devotion  for  that  father  land. 


THE 

FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS, 
SARATOGA. 

BY  riTZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 


Strangers  !  your  eyes  are  on  that  valley  fixed 
Intently,  as  we  gaze  on  vacancy, 

When  the  mind's  w^n^s  o'erspread 

The  spirit  world  of  dreams. 

True,  'tis  a  scene  of  loveliness — the  bnght 
Green  dwellins  of  the  Summer's  first  bom  hours, 

Smiling,  through  tears  of  dew, 

A  welcome  to  the  morn. 

23* 


270  FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS. 

And  morn  returns  their  welcome.     Sun  and  cloud 
Smile  on  the  green  earth  from  their  home  in  heaven, 

Even  as  the  mother  smiles 

Above  her  cradled  boy — 

And  wreathe  then:  light  and  shade  o'er  plain  and  moun 

tarn, 
O'er  sleepless  seas  of  grass  whose  waves  are  flowers, 
The  river's  golden  shores, 
The  forest  of  dark  pmes. 

The  song  of  the  wild  bird  is  on  the  wind, 
The  hum  of  the  wild  bee,  the  music  wild 

Of  waves  upon  the  bank. 

Of  leaves  upon  the  bough. 

But  all  is  song  and  beauty  in  the  land, 
In  these  her  Eden  days — then  journey  on ! 

A  thousand  scenes  like  this 

Will  greet  you  ere  the  eve. 

Ye  linger  yet.     Ye  see  noi:,  hear  not  now 
The  sunny  smile,  the  music  of  to-day — 

Your  thoughts  are  wandering  up. 

Far  up  the  stream  of  time  ; 

And  long  slept  recollections  of  old  tales 

Are  rushing  on  your  memories,  as  ye  breathe 


FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS.  271 

That  valley's  storied  name, 
Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms ! 

Gazers !  it  is  your  home — American 

Is  your  lip's  haughty  smile  of  triumph  here; 

American  your  step — 

Ye  tread  your  native  land. 

And  your  high  thoughts  are  on  her  Glory's  day. 
The  solemn  sabbath  of  the  week  of  Battle, 

When  Fortune  bowed  to  earth 

The  banner  ©f  Burgoyne. 

The  forest  leaves  lay  scattered,  cold  and  dead, 
Upon  the  withered  grass  that  autumn  mom, 

When,  with  as  withered  hearts, 

And  hopes  as  dead  and  cold, 

His  gallant  army  form'd  their  last  array 
Upon  that  field  in  silence  and  deep  gloom, 

And,  at  their  conqueror's  feet, 

Laid  their  war  weapons  down. 

Sullen  and  stern,  disarmed,  but  not  dishonoured, 
Brave  men,  but  brave  in  vain,  they  yielded  there— 

The  soldier's  trial  task 

Is  not  alone  to  die. 


1 


272  FIELI>  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS.  ■ 

Honour  to  chivalry  !  the  conqueror's  breath 
Stains  not  the  ermine  of  his  foeman's  fame, 

Nor  mocks  his  captive's  doom — 

The  bitterest  cup  of  war. 

But  be  that  bitterest  cup  the  doom  of  all 
Whose  swords  are  lightning-flashes  in  the  cloud 

Of  the  invader's  wrath, 

Threatening  a  gallant  land  1 

His  army's  trumpet  tones  wake  not  alone 
Her  slumbermg  echoes — from  a  thousand  hilla 

Her  answering  voices  shout, 

And  her  bells  ring — "  To  arms  !" 

Then  danger  hovers  o'er  the  invaders  march, 
On  raven  wings ;  hushing  the  song  of  Fam*e, 

And  Glory's  hues  of  beauty 

Fade  from  the  cheek  of  Death 

A  foe  is  heard  in  every  rustling  leaf, 
A  fortress  seen  in  every  rock  and  tree ; 

The  veteran  eye  of  Art 

Is  dim  and  powerless  then, 

And  War  becomes  the  peasant's  joy ;  her  drum 
His  merriest  music,  and  her  field  of  death 


FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS.  273 

His  couch  of  happy  dreams, 
After  Life's  harvest  home. 

He  battles,  heart  and  arm,  his  own  blue  sky 
Above  him,  and  his  own  green  land  around, 

Land  of  his  father's  grave. 

His  blessing  and  his  prayers ! 

Land  where  he  learnt  to  lisp  a  mother's  name, 
The  first  beloved  on  earth,  the  last  forgot, 

Land  of  his  frolic  youth, 

Land  of  his  bridal  eve  ! 

Land  of  his  claildren !  Vain  your  columned  strength, 
Invaders !  vain  your  battle's  steed  and  fire ! 

Choose  ye  the  morrow's  doom, 

A  prison  or  a  grave ! 

And  such  were  Saratoga's  victors — such 

The  peasants  brave,  whose  deeds  and  death  have  given 

A  glory  to  her  skies, 

A  music  to  her  name. 

In  honourable  life  her  fields  they  trod, 
In  honourable  death  they  sleep  below, 

Their  sons'  proud  feelings  here 

Their  noblest  monuments. 


274  AUTUMN  MUSINGS. 

Feelings,  as  proud  as  were  the  Greek's  of  old, 
^Vhen,  in  his  country's  hour  of  fame  he  stood, 

Happy,  and  young,  and  free, 

Gazing  on  Marathon  ! 


AUTUMN  MUSINGS. 

BY    GEORGE    LUNT. 


Come  thou  with  me  ? — if  thou  hast  worn  away 

All  this  most  glorious  summer  in  the  crowd, 

Amid  the  dust  of  cities  and  the  din, 

While  birds  are  caroling  on  every  spray — 

If,  from  gray  dawn  till  solemn  night's  approach, 

Thy  soul  hath  wasted  all  its  better  thoughts, 

Toiling  and  panting  for  a  httle  gold, 

Drudging  amid  the  very  lees  of  life, 

For  this  accursed  slave  that  makes  men  slaves — 

Oh  !  come  with  me  into  the  pleasant  fields  ; 

Let  Nature  breathe  on  us  and  make  us  free. 

For  thou  shalt  hold  communion,  pure  and  high, 
With  the  great  spirit  of  the  universe. 
It  shall  pervade  thy  soul ;  it  shall  renew 
The  fancies  of  thy  boyhood ;  thou  shalt  know 


AUTUMN  MUSINGS.  275 

Tears,  most  unwonted  tears,  dimming  thine  eyes ; — 
Thou  shalt  forget  under  the  old  brown  oak. 
That  the  good  south  wind  and  the  hberal  west 
Have  other  tidings  than  the  songs  of  birds. 
Or  the  soft  news  wafted  from  fraofrant  flowers. 

Look  out  on  nature's  face — and  what  hath  she 

In  common  with  thy  feehngs  1  That  brown  hill — 

Upon  whose  side,  from  the  gray  mountain  ash 

We  gathered  crimson  berries — looked  as  brown 

When  the  leaves  fell  twelve  autumn  suns  aero. 

This  pleasant  stream,  with  the  well  shaded  verge, 

On  whose  fair  surface  have  our  buoyant  limbs 

So  often  played,  caressing  and  caressed — 

Its  verdant  banks  are  green  as  then  they  were — 

So,  went  its  bubbling  murmur  down  the  tide. 

Yes,  and  the  very  trees — those  ancient  oaks, 

The  crimson-crested  maple,  wa\ing  elm, 

And  fair  smooth  ash,  with  leaves  of  graceful  gold — 

Look  like  familiar  faces  of  old  friends. 

From  their  broad  branches  drop  the  withered  leaves — 

Drop,  one  by  one,  without  a  single  breath, 

Save  when  some  eddying  curl  round  the  old  roots 

Twirls  them  about  in  merry  sport  awhile. 

They  are  not  changed ;  their  office  is  not  done  : 

The  first  free  breeze  of  spring  shall  see  them  fresh. 

With  sprouting  twigs  bursting  from  every  branch, 

As  should  fresh  feelings  from  our  withered  hearts. 


27e  AUTUMN  MUSINGS. 

Scorn  not  the  moral ;  for  while  these  have  warmed 

To  annual  beauty,  gladdening  the  fields 

With  new  and  ever  glorious  garniture, 

Thou  hast  grown  w^orn  and  wasted — almost  gray, 

Even  in  thy  very  summer.     'Tis  for  tliis 

We  have  neglected  Nature !  wearino-  out 

Our  hearts  and  all  life's  dearest  charities, 

In  the  perpetual  turmoil,  when  we  need 

To  strengthen  and  to  purify  our  minds 

Amid  the  venerable  woods ;  to  hold 

Chaste  converse  with  the  foimtains  and  the  vdnds ! 

So  should  we  elevate  our  souls  :  so,  be 

Ready  to  stand  and  act  a  nobler  part 

In  the  hard,  heartless  struggles  of  the  world. 

Day  wanes  ;  'tis  autumn's  eventide  again ; 
And,  sinking  on  the  blue  hill's  breast,  the  sun 
Spreads  the  large  bounty  of  his  level  blaze. 
Lengthening  the  shades  of  mountains  and  tall  trees, 
And  throwing  blacker  shadows  o'er  the  sheet 
Of  this  dark  stream,  in  whose  unruffled  tide 
Waver  the  bank  shrub  and  the  graceful  elm. 
As  the  gray  branches  and  their  trembling  leaves 
Catch  the  soft  whisper  of  the  coming  air. 
So  doth  it  mirror  every  passing  cloud, 
And  those  which  fill  the  chambers  of  the  west 
With  such  strange  beauty,  fairer  than  all  thrones, 
Blazoned  with  barbarous  gems  and  gorgeous  gold. 


AUTUMN  MUSINGS.  277 

I  see  thy  full  heart  gathering  in  thine  eyes : 

I  see  those  eyes  sweUing  with  precious  tears  ; 

But  if  thou  couldst  have  looked  upon  this  scene 

With  a  cold  brow,  and  then  turned  back  to  thoughts 

Of  traffic  in  thy  fellow's  wretchedness, 

Thou  wert  not  fit  to  gaze  upon  the  face 

Of  Nature's  naked  beauty —  most  unfit 

To  look  on  fairer  things,  the  lovehness 

Of  earth's  uneartlily  daughters,  whose  glad  forms 

And  glancing  eyes  do  kindle  the  great  souls 

Of  better  men  to  emulate  pure  thoughts. 

And,  in  high  action,  all  ennobling  deeds. 

But  lo  !  the  harvest-moon !  she  climbs  as  fair 
Among  the  clustered  jewels  of  the  sky, 
As,  mid  the  rosy  bowers  of  paradise, 
Her  soft  fight,  trembling  upon  leaf  and  flower, 
Smiled  on  the  slumbers  of  the  first-bom  man. 
And,  while  her  beauty  is  upon  our  hearts, 
Now,  let  us  seek  our  quiet  home,  that  sleep 
May  come  without  bad  dreams ;  may  come  as  light 
As  to  that  yellow  headed  cottage  bo3\ 
Whose  serious  musings,  as  he  homeward  drives 
His  sober  herd,  are  of  the  frosty  dawn 
And  the  ripe  nuts,  which  his  own  hand  shall  pluck. 
Then,  when  the  lark,  high  courier  of  the  morn, 
Looks  from  his  airy  vantage  o'er  the  world. 
And,  by  the  music  of  his  mounting  flight, 

24 


278  THE  ICE  MOUNTAIN. 

Tells  many  blessed  things  of  gushing  gold 
Coming  in  floods  over  the  eastern  wave, 
Will  we  arise,  and  our  pure  orisons 
Shall  keep  us  in  the  troubles  of  the  day. 


TO  THE  ICE  MOUNTAIN. 

BY  JAMES  O.   ROCKWELL. 


Grave  of  waters  gone  to  rest ! 

Jewel,  dazzling  all  the  main ! 
Father  of  the  silver  crest ! 

Wandering  on  the  trackless  plain, 
Sleeping  mid  the  wavy  roar, 

Sailing  mid  the  angry  storm, 
Ploughing  ocean's  oozy  floor, 

Piling  to  the  clouds  thv  form ! 


i-> 


Wandering  monument  of  rain, 

Prisoned  by  the  sullen  north ! 
But  to  melt  thy  hated  chain, 

Is  it,  that  thou  comest  forth  7 
Wend  thee  to  the  sunny  south. 

To  the  glassy  summer  sea, 
And  the  breathings  of  her  mouth 

Shall  unchain  and  gladden  thee  ! 


THE  MOTIIEH'S  GRAV^E.  279 

Roamer  in  the  Iiitlden  path, 

'Neath  the  green  and  clouded  wave ! 
Tramphng,  in  thy  reckless  wrath, 

On  the  lost,  but  cherished  brave ;  •' 

Partino;  love's  death-linked  embrace —  I 

Crushing  beauty's  skeleton — 
Tell  us  what  the  hidden  race  ', 

With  our  mourned  lost  have  done ! 

Floating  Sleep !  who  in  the  sun 

Art  an  icy  coronal ; 
And,  beneath  the  viewless  dun, 

Throw' st  o'er  barks  a  wavy  pall ; 
Shining  Death  upon  the  sea ! 

Wend  thee  to  the  southern  main ; 
Bend  to  God  thy  melting  knee, 

Mingle  with  the  wave  again ! 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRAYE 

BY  WILLIAM  GRIGG,  M.  D. 


It  was  a  morn  in  summer.     ■NTature  smiled 
'Neath  the  rich  mantle  of  the  glorious  sun, 
Who,  like  a  god,  majestically  rose 
From  his  bright  chamber  of  eternity, 


-^80  THE  mother's  grave. 

And  o'er  the  earth  his  golden  vapour  poured. 

The  waters  spread  their  crystal  face,  a  wide, 

Unbroken  mirror  of  the  ambient  sky, 

While  on  their  polished  surface  lightly  played 

The  dazzling  sunbeams  of  that  quiet  mom. 

The  sporting  zephyr,  with  the  pensive  leaves 

In  gentle  dalliance,  newer  beauty  gave. 

As  they  were  wakened  from  their  holy  rest, 

And  joyed,  yet  trembled,  in  the  liquid  light 

Which  bathed  them  in  its  flood.     Day's  balmy  breath, 

Rich  with  the  morning  tribute  of  the  flowers, 

Floated  along  to  pour  its  hallowed  sweets 

Among  the  dwellings  of  the  busy  world. 

I  stood  within  a  churchyard.     Art  had  there 
Mingled  its  column  with  the  moss-grown  stone 
That  marked  the  spot  where  humble  beings  lay. 
The  urn-crovmed  monument,  that  proudly  stood 
Upon  the  ashes  of  the  highborn  dead, 
In  golden  blazonry  described  the  chain 
Of  proud,  ennobled  ancestry  that  claimed 
The  buried  praised  one  as  its  brightest  link. 
With  careless  eye  I  scanned  the  epitaphs 
That  stained  the  marble's  purity  with  words — 
The  vainest  mockery  of  the  silent  dead  ! 
What  work  of  art  can  speak  the  thrilling  tones, 
The  voiceless  utterance  of  the  silent  grave  1 
The  measured  movement  of  the  plumed  hearse, 


THE  mother's  grave.  281 

The  marble  pile,  the  gilded  epitaph, 

Speak  not  the  language  of  the  broken  heart. 

There  was  a  simple  stone  whereon  was  writ 

'  A  Mother's  Grave.'     How  eloquent  the  words  ! 

They  wafted  me  far  back  to  other  times, 

When  in  the  days  of  artless  infancy 

The  silent  stone  had  told  my  mother's  name. 

That  tale  seemed  told  again.     Though  youth  was  past 

And  the  cold  calmness  of  maturer  years 

Had  lulled  the  pangs  my  early  boyhood  knew, 

Yet  in  that  tongueless  marble  lurked  a  spell, 

That  wove  around  me  memory's  deathless  joys. 

'Twas  evening  when  I  sovight  that  spot  again. 
Beside  the  grave  three  Uttle  children  stood. 
The  oldest  was  a  boy,  who  scarce  could  claim 
Eight  sununers'  sports  his  own — the  next,  a  girl 
Whose  tender  spring  had  known  but  six  returns — 
And  then,  a  lovely  cherub,  like  the  bud 
Whose  annual  visit  she  four  times  had  welcomed. 
Each  infant's  hand  was  in  the  other's  clasped — 
A  hving  crescent,  at  their  mother's  grave — 
And  fondly  gazing  on  that  sacred  spot 
They  read  the  withering  words  which  said  their  friend, 
Their  dearest,  truest  friend,  slept  the  deep  sleep 
Which  wakens  only  in  eternity. 

9A* 


282  THE  mother's  grave. 

Oh  !  is  there  in  the  waste  of  human  things 
A  stream  so  pure  and  clear  as  that  which  wells 
From  the  deep  fountain  of  a  mother's  heart  7 
No !  no  !  by  the  stern  laws  of  nature,  no  ! 
In  infancy's  soft  hour  the  bud  is  bathed 
In  the  warm  fondness  of  maternal  love, 
And  nourished  to  expand  in  the  full  bloom 
Of  unpolluted  youth — and  even  when 
It  ripens  into  fruit  of  age,  the  same 
Nutritious  fount  supplies  its  manly  strength, 
And  knows  no  hind'rance  to  its  pleasant  course, 
Down  to  the  barriers  of  the  eternal  grave. 

A  mother's  love  !  the  strongest,  truest  type 
Of  the  pure  love  the  Saviour  bears  mankind  ! 
Brightest  in  darkest  hours !  most  seen  when  clouds 
Of  ignominy  rest  upon  her  boy  ! 
And,  like  the  diamond,  showing  best  its  power 
When  other  gems  are  lost  in  shades  of  night, 
Her  love  shines  out  and  yields  its  secret  rays, 
When  trouble  lowers  the  blackest  o'er  her  child. 

I  since  have  visited  that  holy  tomb. 

A  pensive  willow  bending  over  it, 

And  a  small  basket  filled  with  fresh  plucked  flowera 

Starding  beside  the  stone,  assured  my  heart 

That  grave  was  not  forgotten. 


COLONEL  BOONE.  283 

What  rich  joy 
Those  duteous  children  feel,  whose  bosoms  echo 
To  the  soft  strains  fond  memory  loves  to  wake 
O'er  some  green  spot  on  time's  receding  shore, 
Brightly  illumined  by  a  mother's  smile  ! 
But  how  much  holier  theirs,  who,  looking  back 
Along  the  course  their  devious  footsteps  knew, 
Perceive  no  stain  upon  the  hallowed  snow 
Of  childhood's  grateful  duty ! 


COLONEL  BOONE. 

BY   N.   P.   WILLIS. 


"  Colonel  Daniel  Boone,  the  first  settler  of  Kentucky, 
in  consequence  of  losing  all  his  property  by  the  chicanery  of 
the  law,  exiled  himself  from  society,  and  took  up  his  residence 
on  the  banks  of  the  Grand  Osage,  in  company  with  his  son. 
He  there  reared  his  rude  log  hut,  around  which  he  planted  a 
few  esculent  vegetables,  and  his  principal  food  he  obtained  by 
hunting.  An  exploring  traveller,  sometimes  crossing  the  way 
of  this  singular  man,  would  find  him  seated  at  the  door  of  his 
hut,  with  bis  rifle  across  his  knees,  and  his  faithful  dog  at  his 
side,  surveying  his  shrivelled  limbs,  and  lamenting  that  his 
youth  and  manhood  were  gone,  but  hoping  his  legs  would  serve 
him  to  the  last  of  life,  to  carry  him  to  spots  frequented  by  the 
game,  that  he  might  not  starve. 


284  COLONEL  BOONE 

"  In  his  solitude  he  would  sometimes  speak  of  his  past  ac- 
tions, and  of  his  indefatigable  labours,  with  a  glow  of  delight  on 
his  countenance,  that  indicated  how  dear  they  were  to  his  heart, 
and  would  then  become  at  once  silent  and  dejected.  Thus  he 
passed  through  life  till  he  had  attained  the  age  of  ninety,  when 
death  suddenly  terminated  his  earthly  recollections  of  the  ingra- 
titude of  his  fellow  creatures,  at  a  period  when  his  faculties, 
though  he  had  reached  such  an  age,  were  not  greatly  impaired, 
September  26th,  1820." 


Alone  !  Alone  ! — How  drear  it  is 

Always  to  be  alone  ! 
In  such  a  depth  of  wilderness, 

The  only  tliinking  one  ! 
The  waters  in  their  path  rejoice, 

The  trees  together  sleep ; 
But  I  have  not  one  human  voice 

Upon  my  ear  to  creep. 

The  sun  upon  the  silent  hills 

His  mesh  of  beauty  weaves ; 
There's  music  m  the  lau shiner  rills 

And  in  the  whispering  leaves  ; 
The  red  deer  like  the  breezes  fly 

To  meet  the  bounding  roe, 
But  I  have  not  a  human  sigh 

To  cheer  me  as  I  go ! 


COLONEL  BOONE.  288 

Tve  hated  men — I  hate  them  now— 

But  since  they  are  not  here, 
I  thirst  for  the  familiar  brow  ; 

Thirst  for  the  steaUng  tear. 
And  I  should  love  to  gaze  on  one, 

And  feel  the  other  creep — 
And  then  again  I'd  be  alone 

Amid  the  forest  deep. 

I  thought  that  I  should  love  my  hound; 

And  hear  my  cracking  gun, 
Till  I  forgot  the  thrilling  sound 

Of  voices — one  by  one  ; 
I  thought  that,  in  the  leafy  bush 

Of  nature,  they  would  die ; 
But,  as  the  kindred  waters  rush, 

Resisted  feelings  fly ! — 

Vm  weary  of  my  voiceless  hut, 

And  of  its  blasted  tree ; 
The  very  lake  is  like  my  lot, 

So  silent  constantly. 
I've  gazed  upon  the  forest  gloom 

Until  I  almost  fear — 
When  will  the  gushing  voices  coDMi, 

My  spirit  thirsts  to  hear  7- 


286  THE  FAIR  PILGRIM. 


THE  FAIR  PILGRIM. 


"  From  fortune  and  from  fame  they  fled 
To  Heaven  and  its  devotion." 

"  Ellen  Moore,  I  love  you,  but  I  cannot  go 
with  you ;"  said  the  daughter  of  a  noble  house,  as 
she  stood  in  her  youthful  beauty,  among  the  sha- 
dowy elms  of  her  father's  park.  The  diminutive 
figure  of  the  person  whom  she  addressed  was  al- 
most hid  in  the  foliage  of  the  trees,  but  she  raised 
her  dark  eye,  and  her  voice  was  low  and  sweet,  as 
she  replied ;  "  Lady,  it  is  not  for  the  love  you 
bear  me ;  look  into  your  own  soul  for  some  holier 
and  higher  motive."  The  lady  leaned  her  brow 
on  her  hand,  while  Ellen  calmly  watched  her 
countenance.  There  seemed  to  be  some  stron^-, 
bitter  conflict  within ;  there  was  an  agitated  flush 
on  her  cheek,  and  her  eye  was  bright  with  the 
fervour  of  intense  feeling. 

"  Oh,  Ellen,"  at  length  she  said,  while  a  deeper 
and  deeper  colouring  suffused  her  face,  "how 
can  I  leave  parent  and  sister,  my  own  pleasant 
home,  and  the  land  of  my  fathers  j  am  I  not  a 


PsititeS  "I;  —  Cuarmiao's 


*         > 
>         I    >  t  1     . 


.Tj'lt'';  t.ve-  1  .'  G'mlier 


JLADir  ®F    GILIK^^IIILILIE, 


I 


i 


THE  FAIR  PILGRIM-  287 

child,  a  very  child,  and  is  it  for  me  to  make  this 
sacrifice,  and  bring  down  the  gray  liairs  of  my 
father  in  sorrow  to  the  grave  ?  and  would  it  not 
be  sin,"  she  added,  in  a  deeper  tone,  "  to  go  away, 
across  the  wide  blue  waters,  without  my  father's 
blessing  ?"  There  was  something  almost  of  stern- 
ness in  the  voice  of  Ellen,  as  she  replied ;  "  Lady, 
we  cannot  glorify  God  in  this  land,  and  so  he 
hath  opened  for  us  a  way  in  the  deep,  and  a  path 
in  the  mighty  waters.  Lady,  do  you  turn  from 
that  path,  so  that  you  may  not  forfeit  your  fa- 
ther's blessing  ?" 

"  Leave  me  now,  Ellen,  leave  me,  for  my  soul 
is  dark ;"  said  the  Lady  Charlotte,  in  a  voice  of 
eMreaty.  "  This  night,"  replied  the  humble  and 
devoted  girl,  "  the  pilgrims  set  out  on  their  weary 
way ;  sweet  lady,  delay  not,  I  pray  you."  "  But 
leave  me,"  said  she,  in  a  firm,  decided  tone,  "  I 
will  know  my  duty,  and  though  it  be  the  wither- 
ing of  every  joy,  and  the  blighting  of  every  hope, 
God  shall  see,  and  man  shall  see,  that  the  sacrifice 
can  be  made." 

As  Ellen  turned  to  obey,  she  saw  something 
of  the  fixedness  of  stern  resolution  in  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  noble  girl ;  her  lip  was  livid  and 
compressed,   and  her  whole  face  had  the  hue 


2S8  THE  FAIR  PILGRIM. 

of  death;  but  it  seemed  that  the  conflict  was 
over,  and  as  her  hght  foot  pressed  the  path  home- 
ward, the  spirit  of  Ellen  Moore  was  going  up  in 
praise. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  draw  aside  the  veil  from  the 
sanctity  of  that  solemn  hour,  when  the  beautiful 
lady  of  Glenville,  amid  weeping,  and  agony,  and 
prayer,  gave  up  the  joys  that  seemed  ready  to  blos- 
som before  her,  and  all  the  hopes  of  a  rich  imagi- 
nation, and  all  the  loves  of  a  warm  and  affectionate 
heart. 

Yet  there  was  peace  in  her  breast,  as  she  turn 
ed  her  step  to  the  castle,  and  a  serene  smile  shone 
on  her  pale,  thoughtful  countenance,  as  she  lin- 
gered for  a  moment  at  the  gate.  Within  was  her 
blight  and  beautiful  sister,  who  had  loved  her 
since  the  first  gleamings  of  memory,  with  whom 
she  had  played  and  laughed  by  the  sunny  foun- 
tains in  childhood,  who  had  shared  all  her  youth- 
ful studies,  and  sorrows,  and  joys.  And  her  fa- 
ther— there  was  agony  in  the  thought.  She  was 
the  hope,  the  pride,  the  darling  of  his  old  age. 
Many  noblt  j,nd  beautifid  sons  had  he  borne  to 
the  grave,  but  rather,  far  rather,  would  he  see 
both  of  his  sweet  lone  daughters  lying  beside 
tliem,  than  embracing  the  religion  of  the  Puritans. 


THE  FAIR  PILGRIM.  289 

Another^  too,  v/us  there;  one  whom  she  loved 
with  the  truest  affection  :  the  Lady  Charlotte  was 
the  betrothed  of  a  noble  earl,  ^ill  these  she  was 
to  see  this  night  in  mirth  and  gladness,  and  see 
them  no  more  for  ever.  Midnight  was  the  hour 
appointed  for  the  meeting  of  the  pilgrims  on  the 
beach  ;  and  it  was  not  ten,  when  Lady  Charlotte 
retired  to  her  room..  She  felt  that  the  last  awful 
parting  was  over,  and  leaning  her  face  on  her 
hands,  she  now  gave  vent  freely  to  her  suppressed 
feelings.  She  suddenly  felt  a  liglit  arm  flung 
about  her  neck.  "  Dear  sister,  why  do  you  weep  ? 
Let  me  comfort  you ;"  said  her  sister  Eliza,  as 
she  bent  to  ki:is  the  tears  from  her  cheek.  The 
lady  was  overcome ;  she  threw  herself  into  her 
sister's  arms,  and  wept  long  and  violently. 

This  paroxysm  of  grief,  however,  subsided,  and 
she  felt  the  necessity  of  immediate  exertion,  for 
midniglit  was  approaching,  and  she  was  yet  with- 
in the  walls  of  the  castle.  So  stifling  her  heart 
rending  sobs,  she  rose  calmly  from  her  sister's  bo- 
som, and  throwing  back  her  rich  brown  hair  from 
her  fair  forehead,  and  eyes  saffiised  with  tears,  en- 
deavoured with  a  smile  beautifully  calm,  to  con- 
ceal the  anguish  of  an  aching  heart.  "  Pardon 
»ne  sister,"  she  said,  "  that  I  have  been  betrayed 

25 


290  THE  FAIR  PILGRIM. 

into  such  weakness  ;  but  my  spirits  are  oppressed 
to-night ;"  she  added,  in  a  voice  that  was  tremu- 
lous, notwithstanding  her  efforts.     "  Have  I  lost 
my  sister's  co]ifidence  ?"  said  the  Lady  Eliza,  ga- 
zing at  her  with  surprise  and  concern.     "  Do  not 
gaze  so  at  me  now,"  sa'd  the  unfortunate  girl,  "I 
need  rest  and  sleep,  and  my  heart  throbs  so  pain- 
fully that  I  cannot  speak.     But  this  will  tell  you 
all  that  I  w^ould  say,  and  more  ;"  she  said,  as  she 
presented  to  her  a  beautiful  pocket  Bible.  "  If  you 
see  me  no  more  by  the  sunny  glade  and  the  mossy 
spring,  it  will  comfort  you  for  my  absence.  Eliza 
you  will  be  the  stay  of  our  father !"  The  Lady 
Ehza  gazed  with  astonishment  at  her  sister,  and 
could  only  account  for  her  language  by  supposing 
her  delirious.     But  Charlotte  so  strongly  opposed 
her  alarming  the  family,  and  from  that  time  seem- 
ed so  calm  and  composed,  that  she  concluded  it 
was  only  a    momentary  wildness;    and,   after 
watching  her  anxiously  till  her  gentle  breathings 
indicated  that  she  was  asleep,  threw  herself  on  the 
couch  beside  her,  and  was  soon  buried  in  pro- 
found slumber. 

It  was  a  bright  moonlight  evening,  and  Ellen 
Moore  stood  in  the  shadow  of  an  ancient  elm, 
waiting  the  approach  of  the  noble  lady.    Hour 


THE  FAIR  PILGRIM.  291 

after  hour  she  waited  in  vain ;  at  length  the  bell 
of  the  castle  tolled  eleven,  and  she  turned  in  bit- 
terness of  spirit  to  retrace,  with  anxious  haste, 
her  path  to  the  beach.  At  that  moment,  a  shadow 
darkened  the  opening  in  the  avenue,  and  the  lady 
of  Glenville  stood,  pale  and  breathless,  by  the  side 
of  Ellen  Moore.  Arm  in  arm,  they  walked  silently 
and  quickly  forward.  Ellen  saw  that  the  eye  of 
the  lady  was  clear  and  bright,  and  that  her  brow 
was  calm  with  the  fervency  of  devotion.  Firmly 
did  she  tread  the  well  known  path,  till  they  reach- 
ed the  border  of  her  father's  domain ;  then,  in- 
deed, she  lingered  to  take  one  long,  eternal  fare- 
well of  all  she  loved  in  life. 

There  was  the  venecable  castle,  with  its  long 
avenue  and  shady  park  standing  in  the  moonlight ; 
and  the  thousand  remembered  scenes  of  child- 
hood and  youth  came  thronging  to  her  mind. 
"  The  places  which  now  knew  her,  would  soon 
know  her  no  more  for  ever."  But  she  turned 
calmly  and  tearlessly  away  from  them  all,  and 
walked  rapidly  onward. 

The  moon,  in  her  path  over  England  that  night, 
saw  many  a  scene  of  anguish  like  this ;  but  at 
length  the  pilgrims  stood  on  the  beach  together 


192  THE  FAIR  PILGRIM. 

in  the  solemn  moonlight.  There  was  youth,  with 
its  bright  enthusiastic  hope,  giving  up  all  for  Hea- 
ven ;  and  you  might  have  seen  the  stern  zeal,  the 
inflexible  devotedness  of  manhood,  glancing  from 
eye  to  eye.  They  had  a  common  cause,  a  com- 
mon sorrow,  and  a  common  hope  ;  their  feelings 
and  affections  were  one,  and  they  all  rose  in  one 
beautiful  sacrifice  to  God. 

'It  3i»  Vp  jJC  5f  ?(■  5^ 

Many  years  after  this  event,  in  an  humble  vil- 
lage on  the  wild  New-England  shore,  a  noble  lady 
lay  on  her  bed  of  death.  A  light  form  "vvas  seen 
moving  gently  by  her  couch,  and  chanting,  occa- 
sionly,  in  low  thrilling  tones,  some  of  the  holy 
hymns  of  our  pilgrim  fathers.  There  was  a 
brilliant  hectic  on  the  cheek  of  the  dying  lady, 
and  her  eye  was  bright  with  almost  unearthly 
lustre.  As  her  spirit  had  grown  bright  and  lovely 
amid  the  waves  of  affliction,  so  the  beauty  of  her 
countenance  had  only  caught  a  sublimer  charac- 
ter amid  the  privations  she  had  endured.  The 
room  in  which  she  lay  was  neat  almost  to  ele- 
gance, and  the  gentle  assiduity  of  Ellen  Moore 
had  hung  it  with  festoons  of  fresh  and  fragrant 
^nwers.     The  open  window  was  shaded  with 


WAITING  FOR  THE  HARVESTERS.  293 

woodbine  and  roses,  and,  far  away  between  its 
shadowy  leaves,  you  might  see  the  rocky  shore 
and  the  blue  wave  of  the  Atlantic. 

The  lady,  who  was  Avaiting  in  this  peaceful  spot 
for  death,  had  exhibited  in  her  life  an  example  of 
moral  sublimity  that  is  not  often  equalled.  At  the 
age  of  seventeen,  she  had  left  the  home  of  her  fa- 
thers 5  she  had  lived  in  a  land  of  strangers,  bra- 
ving the  dangers  of  the  deep  and  the  horrors  of 
the  western  wilderness;  she  had  endured  with 
calmness  poverty  and  self-denial  of  every  name ; 
and  now,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  worn  with 
care  and  hardship,  she  laid  down  and  died,  in  her 
youthful  beauty,  far  from  kindred  and  home. 


WAITING  FOR 

THE  HARVESTERS. 

BY  N.  P.  WILLIS. 


And  there  she  sat  in  ripen' d  loveliness, 
An  English  mother ;  jo5nng  in  her  babes, 
Whose  life  was  bright  before  her,  and  whose  lips 
Were  breaRing  into  language  with  the  sweet 

25* 


294  WAITING  FOR  THE  HARVESTERS. 

And  loving  sentences  they  learn  so  soon. 

Her  face  was  very  beautiful,  and  mirth 

"Was  native  on  her  lip ;  but  ever  now 

As  a  sweet  tone  delighted  her,  the  smile 

Went  melting  into  sadness,  and  the  lash 

Droop'd  gently  to  her  eye,  as  if  it  knew 

Affection  was  too  chaste  a  thing  for  mirth. 

It  was  the  time  for  harvest ;  and  she  sat 

Awaiting  one.     A  breath  of  scented  hay 

Was  in  the  air,  and  from  the  distance  came 

The  noise  of  sickles,  and  the  voices  sent 

Out  on  the  stillness  of  the  quiet  morn ; 

And  the  low  waters,  coming  Uke  the  strain 

Of  a  pervading  melody,  stole  in 

And  made  all  music.     'Twas  a  hoUness 

Of  nature's  making,  and  I  hfted  up 

My  heart  to  Heaven,  and  in  my  gladness  pray'd 

That  if  a  heart  were  sad,  or  if  a  tear 

Were  living  upon  earth,  it  might  be  theirs 

To  go  abroad  in  nature,  and  to  see 

A  mother  and  her  gentle  babes  like  these. 


THE   SENTRY  BOX. 

BY  CHARLES  WEST  THOMSON. 

Ah  !  gentle  widow !  what  a  plan 

To  snare  the  good,  kind-hearted  man ! 

How  could'st  thou  have  the  hardihood 

To  sap  his  unsuspecting  heart, 
And  aim  to  stir  his  sober  blood, 

Fair  dame !  with  thy  delusive  art  ? 
How  all  unconscious  does  he  swear 
He  can  discern  no  atom  there. 

Dear  Uncle  Toby  !  canst  not  spy 
A  cupid  in  the  widow's  eye, 
That  seeks  to  rob  thee  of  thy  rest 

By  means  which  thou  canst  not  surmise, 
And  aims  an  arrow  at  thy  breast. 

Whose  point  is  dipped  in  tears  and  sighs  ? 
Nay,  Uncle  Toby  !  turn  away, 
Lest  woman's  eye  thy  heart  betray. 


U\f\ 


i^mm  gusT'i^iE^  m(m 


C-  c    I 


'I 


C   C    t      £ 


1 


TO  A  LADY.  295 


TO  A  LADY, 


WITH    A    WITHERED    LEAF. 
BY  W.  G.  CROSBY. 


What  ofiering  can  the  minstrel  bring 
To  cast  upon  affection's  shrine  7 

'Twas  hard  thy  magic  spell  to  fling 
O'er  the  fond  heart  already  thine  ! 

Thou  wouldst  not  prize  the  glittering  gem. 
Thou  wouldst  but  cast  the  pearl  away ; 

For  thine  is  now  a  diadem, 

Of  lustre  brighter  far  than  they. 

,1  will  not  bring  the  spring  tide  flower 

Reposing  on  its  gentle  leaf; 
Its  memory  lives  but  for  an  hour — 

I  would  not  thine  should  be  as  brief. 

My  heart !  but  that  has  long  been  thine — 
'Twere  but  a  worthless  offerincr ; 

The  ruin  of  a  nfled  shrine, 
A  flower  that  fast  is  withering. 


296  TO  A  LADY. 

My  song! — 'tis  but  a  mournful  strain, 

So  deep  in  sorrow's  mantle  clad, 
E'en  echo  will  not  wake  again 

The  music  of  a  strain  so  sad. 

A  withered  leaf! — nay,  scorn  it  not, 

Nor  deem  it  all  unworthy  thee ; 
It  grew  upon  a  hallowed  spot, 

And  sacred  is  its  memory. 

I  pluck' d  it  from  a  lonely  bough 

That  hung  above  my  mother^ s  grave 

And  felt,  e'en  then,  that  none  but  thou 
Couldst  prize  the  gift  affection  gave. 

She  faded  with  the  flowers  of  spring. 
That  o'er  her  Ufeless  form  were  cast — 

And  when  I  plucked  this  faded  thing, 
'Twas  shivering  m  the  autumn  blast. 

'Twas  the  last  one ! — all — all  were  gone, 

They  bloom' d  not  where  the  yew  trees  wave; 

This  leaf  and  I  were  left  alone, 

Pale  watchers  o'er  my  mother's  grave. 

I  mark'd  it,  when  ftill  oft  I  sought 
That  spot  so  dear  to  memory ; 


VOYAGE  OF  THE  PHILOSOPHERS.  297 

I  loved  it — for  I  fondly  thought, 
It  linger' d  there  to  mourn  with  me! 

I've  moisten'd  it  with  many  a  tear, 

I've  hallow 'd  it  with  many  a  prayer, 
And  while  this  bursting  heart  was  clear 

From  guilt's  dark  stain,  I  shrined  it  there. 

Now,  lady,  now  the  gift  is  thine  ! 

Oh,  guard  it  with  a  vestal's  care  ; 
Make  but  thine  angel  heart  its  shrine, 

And  I  will  kneel  and  worship  there  ! 


THE  VOYAGE  OF 

THE  PHILOSOPHERS. 

AN  EASTERN  TALE. 


The  celebrated  Hiram,  king  of  Tyre,  was  not 
only  a  patron  of  the  arts,  but  a  promoter  of  learn- 
ing also.  He  founded,  seminaries,  encouraged 
talent,  and  favoured  men  of  letters. 

In  a  simple  state  of  society,  the  disputes  of  men 
arise  out  of  questions  of  conduct*  but  as  they 


298  VOYAGE  OF  THE  PHILOSOPHERS. 

grow  more  learned  and  refined,  they  quarrel 
about  matters  of  speculation.  After  the  rights  of 
property  and  the  rules  of  duty  are  well  ascertain- 
ed, there  is  little  opportunity  for  the  exhibition  of 
superior  sagacity,  except  in  the  discussion  of 
misty  points  of  doctrine.  Those,  therefore,  who 
are  ambitious  of  display,  leaving  vulgar  questions 
of  right  and  wrong  in  action,  to  less  ambitious 
minds,  soar  aloft  into  the  divmer  regions  of  doubt 
and  abstraction. 

Thus  it  happened  m  Phoenicia.  The  princi- 
ples of  morality,  embracing  the  social  and  reli- 
gious duties,  having  been  settled  so  that  "the 
wayfaring  man,  though  a  fool,  need  not  err 
therein,"  the  philosophers  began  to  wrangle  about 
subtle  points  of  belief.  Sundry  questions  were 
started  relating  to  the  destiny  of  the  soul  after 
death.  The  general  notion  of  the  future  happi- 
ness of  the  virtuous  and  the  misery  of  the  wicked, 
was  too  easily  comprehended,  and  too  generally 
admitted,  to  satisfy  these  acute  metaphysicians. 
They  must  needs  penetrate  the  curtain  that  is 
dropped  between  the  mortal  and  immortal  state, 
and  gain  as  exact  knowledge  of  things  unseen  as 
of  things  seen. 

We  cannot  undertake  to  detail  the  various  the- 


VOifAGE  OF  THE  PHILOSOPHERS.  299 

ories  which  were  noAV  started  by  the  philoso- 
phers, or  attempt  to  give  an  account  of  the  nu- 
merous sects  into  which  they  divided  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Phcenicia.  One  of  the  leading  questions, 
however,  which  seemed  to  separate  the  people 
into  two  great  divisions,  was  this  :  WTiat  is  the 
shape  of  the  vast  island  which  forms  the  para- 
dise of  the  blessed  ?  It  was  generally  agreed  that 
this  island  lay  far  away  in  the  ocean ;  that  it  was 
the  abode  of  perpetual  spring,  and  the  seat  of  uni- 
versal and  unbounded  bliss.  But  what  was  its 
shape  ?  Was  it  circular  or  triangular  ?  These 
were  questions  which  agitated  the  people,  and 
shook  society  to  its  foundation. 

King  Hiram  was  a  man  of  sense,  and  of  a 
practical  turn ;  he  determined,  therefore,  that  the 
question  should  be  settled  by  occular  demonstra- 
tion. He  accordingly  ordered  an  expedition  to  be 
fitted  out,  consisting  of  as  many  vessels  as  there 
were  sects.  He  then  selected  the  leading  philo- 
sophers of  every  sect,  gave  each  the  command 
of  a  vessel,  and  ordered  them  to  sail  forth  upon 
the  sea  in  quest  of  the  happy  isle,  and  bring  him 
tidings  of  the  result. 

The  squadron  consisted  of  several  hundred 
vessels,  manned  by  expert  seamen.     Having  en- 


300  VOYAGE  OF  THE  PHILOSOPHERS. 

tered  the  Indian  ocean,  by  the  way  of  the  Red 
Sea,  they  bade  adieu  to  the  shore,  and  stretched 
forth  upon  the  bhie  main,  guiding  their  course 
by  the  heavenly  bodies.  They  kept  together  for 
many  days ;  but  at  length  the  skies  became  in- 
volved in  clouds,  and  violent  disputes  arose  among 
the  philosophers.  Under  these  circumstances, 
the  great  question  shoidd  have  been  as  to  their 
course ;  but,  instead  of  this,  they  went  to  logger- 
heads about  tlie  shape  of  the  happy  island.  From 
words  they  almost  came  to  blows,  and  finally  the 
philosophers  parted  in  anger.  One  portion  set 
off  in  one  direction,  another  portion  in  the  oppo- 
site direction,  while  a  large  number,  unable  to 
make  up  their  minds  amid  such  contending 
views,  furled  their  sails,  and  left  their  vessels  to 
drift  with  the  tide. 

The  two  squadrons  stretched  away,  the  one 
east,  the  other  west,  and,  so  long  as  they  kept  in 
sight  of  each  other,  their  activity  seemed  stimu- 
lated by  a  desire  to  be  as  far  from  each  other  as 
possible.  After  sailing  for  many  days  in  an 
easterly  course,  and  having  encountered  innume- 
rable dangers  and  hardships,  one  of  the  squadrons 
approached  the  happy  isle.  A  lovelier  light  than 
that  of  summer  shone  over  it,  and  sweeter  land- 


VOYAGE  OF  THE  PHILOSOPHERS  301 

scapes  than  those  of  Arabia  spread  along  its 
coast.  The  inhabitants  received  them  with  the 
kindest  welcome,  and  such  happiness  thrilled  in 
the  bosoms  of  the  philosophers,  that  all  feelings 
but  those  of  benevolence  subsided,  and  forgetting 
their  anger,  they  wished  that  their  antagonists 
might  be  partakers  of  their  joy.  Scarcely  had 
they  expressed  these  feelings,  when  in  the  east- 
ern horizon  they  discovered  the  other  squadron 
under  full  sail  coming  down  upon  the  island  in  a 
direction  opposite  to  that  by  which  they  had  ar 
rived.  They  soon  reached  the  shore,  and  the 
philosophers,  who  had  parted  in  malice,  now  met 
in  peace. 

Having  spent  some  time  at  the  happy  isle,  they 
entered  their  ships,  and,  bidding  a  reluctant  adieu 
to  the  place,  returned  to  Tyre.  On  being  re- 
quired by  the  king  to  tell  him  the  shape  of  the 
island,  the  grand  object  of  the  expedition,  the  phi- 
losophers looked  at  each  other,  and  appeared  to  be 
abashed.  The  king  was  angry,  and  imperiously 
commanded  them  to  answer  his  question.  They 
then  confessed  that  they  had  forgotten  to  ask  about 
the  shape  of  the  island.  "  Let  me  have  no  more 
quarrels  then,"  said  the  king,"  about  idle  questions 
of  belief ;  let  your  arrogance  and  dogmatism  be 

26 


302  THE  TWINS. 

humbled  by  the  recollection,  that  opposite  courses 
have  led  to  the  same  point ;  and  remember,  that 
matters  of  speculation,  which  are  wrought  into 
consequence  by  contention,  sink  into  insignifi- 
cance in  the  light  of  truth," 


THE  TWINS. 

BY  S.  GRISVv  OLD  GOODRICH. 


"  I  tell  it  to  you  as  'tw'as  told  to  me." 

In  the  autumn  of  1826,  I  had  occasion  to  visit 

the  tOAMi  of  N ,  beautifully  situated  on  the 

v/estern  bank  of  the  Connecticut  river.  My  busi- 
ness led  me  to  the  house  of  B .  a  lawyer  of 

threescore  and  ten,  who  was  now  resting  from 
the  labours,  and  enjoying  the  fruits  of  a  life  strenu- 
ously and  successfully  devoted  to  his  u'-ofession. 
His  drawing  room  was  richly  furnished,  and 
decorated  with  several  valuable  paintings.  There 
was  one  among  them,  that  particularly  attracted 
my  attention.  It  represented  a  mother  with  two 
beautiful  children,  one  in  either  arm,  a  light  veil 
thrown  over  the  group,  and  one  of  the  children 
pressing  its  lips  to  the  cheek  of  the  mother. 


THE  TWINS.  303 

"  Tliat,"  said  I,  pointing  to  the  picture,  "  is  very- 
beautiful.  Pray,  sir,  what  is  the  subject  of  it  ?" 
"  It  is  a  mother  and  her  twins,"  said  he ;  "  the 
picture  in  itself  is  esteemed  a  fine  one,  but  I  value 
it  more  for  the  recollections  which  are  associated 
with  it."  I  turned  my  eye  upon  B ;  he  look- 
ed communicative,  and  I  asked  him  for  the  story. 
"  Sit  down,"  said  he,  "  and  I  will  tell  it."  We 
accordingly  sat  down,  and  he  gave  me  the  follow- 
ing narrative. 

During  the  period  of  the  war  of  the  revolution, 
there  resided,  in  the  western  part  of  Massachu- 
setts, a  farmer  by  the  name  of  Stedman.  He  was 
a  man  of  substance,  descended  from  a  very  re- 
spectable English  family,  well  educated,  distin- 
guished for  great  firmness  of  character  in  general, 
and  alike  remarkable  for  inflexible  integrity  and 
steadfast  loyalty  to  his  king.  Such  was  the  re- 
putation he  sustained,  that  even  when  the  most 
violent  antipathies  against  royalism  swayed  the 
community,  it  was  still  admitted  on  all  hands,  that 
farmer  Stedman,  though  a  tory,  was  honest  in  his 
opinions,  and  firmly  believed  them  to  be  right. 

The  period  came  when  Burgoyne  was  advan- 
cing from  the  north.  It  was  a  time  of  great  anxie- 
ty with  both  the  friends  and  foes  of  the  revolution, 


304  THE  TWIN'S, 

and  one  which  called  forth  their  highest  exer- 
tions. The  patriotic  militia  flocked  to  the  stand- 
ard of  Gates  and  Stark,  while  many  of  the  tories 
resorted  to  the  quarters  of  Biirgoyne  and  Baum. 
Among  the  latter  was  Stedman.  He  had  no 
sooner  decided  it  to  be  his  duty,  than  he  took  a 
kind  farewell  of  his  wife,  a  woman  of  uncommon 
beauty,  gave  his  children,  a  twin  boy  and  girl,  a 
long  embrace,  then  mounted  his  horse  and  depart- 
ed. He  joined  himself  to  the  unfortunate  expe- 
dition of  Baum,  and  was  taken  with  other  prison- 
ers of  w^ar  by  the  victorious  Stark. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  name  or 
character,  which  were  both  soon  discovered,  and 
he  was  accordingly  committed  to  prison  as  a  tr^v 
tor.  The  gaol,  in  which  he  was  confined,  was  in 
the  western  part  of  Massachusetts,  and  nearly  in 
a  ruinous  condition.  The  farmer  was  one  night 
waked  from  his  sleep  by  several  persons  in  his 
room.  "  Come,"  said  they,  "  you  can  now  re- 
gain your  liberty :  we  have  made  a  breach  in  the 
prison,  through  which  you  can  escape."  To 
their  astonishment,  Stedman  utterly  refused  to 
leave  his  prison.  In  vain  they  expostulated 
with  him ;  in  vain  they  represented  to  him  that 
life  was  at  stake.    His  reply  was,  that  he  was  a 


THE  TWINS.  305 

true  man,  and  a  servant  of  King  George,  and  he 
would  not  creep  out  of  a  hole  at  night,  and  sneak 
away  from  the  rebels,  to  save  his  neck  from  the 
gallows.  Finding  it  altogether  fruitless  to  attempt 
to  move  him,  his  friends  left  him,  with  some  ex- 
pressions of  spleen. 

The  time  at  length  arrived  for  the  trial  of  the 
prisoner.  The  distance  to  the  place  where  the 
court  was  sitting  was  about  sixty  miles.  Stedman 
remarked  to  the  sheriff,  when  he  came  to  attend 
him,  that  it  would  save  some  expense  and  incon- 
venience, if  he  could  be  permitted  to  go  alone, 
and  on  foot.  "And  suppose,"  said  the  sheritf 
"that  you  should  prefer  your  safety  to  your 
honour,  and  leave  me  to  seek  you  in  the  British 
camp  ?"  "  I  had  thought,"  said  the  farmer,  red- 
dening with  indignation,  "  that  I  was  speaking  to 
one  who  knew  me."  "  I  do  know  you,  indeed," 
said  the  sheriif ;  "I  spoke  but  in  jest ;  you  shall 
have  your  way.     Go,  and  on  the  third  day  I  shall 

expect  to  see  you  at  S ."  *  *  *  *  The  farmer 

departed,  and  at  the  appointed  time  he  placed 
himself  in  the  hands  of  the  sheriff. 

I  was  now  engaged  as  his  counsel.  Stedman 
insisted,  before  the  court,  upon  telling  his  whole 
story ;  and,  when  I  would  have  taken  advantage 

26* 


306  THE  TWINS. 

of  some  technical  points,  he  sharply  rebuked  me, 
and  told  me  that  he  had  not  employed  me  to 
prevaricate,  but  only  to  assist  him  in  telling  the 
truth.  I  had  never  seen  such  a  display  of  simple 
integrity.  It  was  affecting  to  witness  his  love  of 
holy,  unvarnished  truth,  elevating  him  above 
every  other  consideration,  and  presiding  in  his 
breast  as  a  sentiment  even  superior  to  the  love 
of  life.  I  saw  the  tears  more  than  once  spring- 
ing to  the  eyes  of  his  judges ;  never  before,  or 
since,  have  I  felt  such  an  interest  in  a  client.  I 
plead  for  him  as  I  would  have  plead  for  my  own 
life.  1  drew  tears,  but  I  could  not  sway  the  judg- 
ment of  stern  men,  controlled  rather  by  a  sense 
of  duty  than  the  compassionate  promptings  of 
humanity.  Stedman  was  condemned.  I  told 
him  there  was  a  chance  of  pardon,  if  he  would 
ask  for  it.  I  drew  up  a  petition,  and  requested  him 
to  sign  it,  but  he  refused.  "  I  have  done,"  said  he, 
"  what  I  thought  my  duty.  I  can  ask  pardon  of 
my  God,  and  my  king  ;  but  it  would  be  hypocri- 
sy to  ask  forgiveness  of  these  men,  for  an  action 
which  I  should  repeat,  were  I  placed  again  in 
similar  circumstances.  No  !  ask  me  not  to  sign 
that  petition.  If  what  you  call  the  cause  of 
American  freedom  requires  the  blood  of  an  ho- 


THE  TWINS.  307 

nest  man  for  a  conscientious  discharge  of  what  he 
deemed  his  duty,  let  me  be  its  victim.  Go  to  my 
judges,  and  tell  them  that  I  place  not  my  fears 
nor  my  hopes  in  them,"  It  was  in  vain  that  I 
pressed  the  subject ;  and  I  went  away  in  despair. 
In  returning  to  my  house,  I  accidentally  called 
on  an  acquaintance,  a  young  man  of  brilliant 
genius,  the  subject  of  a  passionate  predilection  for 
painting.  Tnis  led  him  frequently  to  take  excur- 
sions into  the  country,  for  the  purpose  of  sketch- 
ing such  objects  and  scenes  as  were  interesting  to 
him.  From  one  of  these  rambles  he  had  just 
returned.  I  found  him  sitting  at  his  easel,  giving 
the  last  touches  to  the  picture  which  attracted 
your  attention.  He  asked  my  opinion  of  it. 
"  It  is  a  fine  picture,"  said  I ;"  is  it  a  fancy  piece, 
or  are  they  portraits  ?"  "  They  are  portraits," 
said  he ;  "  and  save  perhaps  a  little  embellishment, 
they  are,  I  think,  striking  portraits  of  the  wife 
and  children  of  your  unfortunate  client,  Stedman. 
In  the  course  of  my  rambles,  I  chanced  to  call  at 
his  house  in  H .  I  never  saw  a  more  beauti- 
ful group.  The  mother  is  one  of  a  thousand ; 
and  the  twins  are  a  pa'r  of  cherubs."  "  Tell  me," 
said  I,  laying  my  hand  on  the  picture,  "  tell  me, 
are  they  true  and  faithful  portraits  of  the  wife 


308  THE  TWINS. 

and  children  of  Stedman  ?"  My  earnestness 
made  my  friend  stare.  He  assured  me  that,  so 
far  as  he  could  be  permitted  to  judge  of  his  own 
productions,  they  were  striking  representations. 
I  asked  no  farther  questions ;  I  seized  the  picture, 
and  hurried  with  it  to  the  prison  where  my  chert 
was  confined.  I  found  him  sitting,  his  face  co- 
vered with  his  hands,  and  apparently  wrung  by 
keen  emotion.  I  placed  the  picture  in  such  a 
situation  that  he  could  not  fail  to  see  it.  I  laid 
the  petition  on  the  little  table  by  his  side,  and  left 
the  room. 

In  half  an  hour  I  returned.  The  farmer  grasp- 
ed my  hand,  while  tears  stole  down  his  cheeks ; 
his  eye  glanced  first  uponthe  picture,  and  then  to 
the  petition.  He  said  nothing,  but  handed  the 
latter  to  me.  I  took  it,  and  left  the  apartment. 
He  had  put  his  name  to  it.  The  petition  was 
granted,  and  Stedman  was  set  at  liberty. 


CATSLILL.  309 

CATSKTLL. 

A  JOURNAL  OF  THE  GRAND  AND  GLORIOUS. 


S.  Nay — you  shall  see  mirie  orchard ,  where,  in  an  arbour, 

we  will  eat  a  last  year's  pippin,  of  my  oavti  grafting,  with  a  dish 

of  caraways,  and  so  forth : — come,  cousin  Silence — and  then  to 

bed. 

F.  Fore  God,  you  have  a  goodly  dwelling  and  a  rich. 

S.  Marry,  good  sir — spread,  Davy — spread. 

Shaksfeare. 

It  was  a  sultry  morning  in  the  dog  days  of  the 
last  memorable  year,  when  I  stepped  on  board 
the  Constellation  Aviih  three  friends,  whose  spirits 
are  as  elastic  and  healthful  as  the  air  of  the  moun- 
tains that  we  trod  together.  Perhaps  it  may  not 
be  uncivil  to  say  something  about  them.  The 
first,  and  tallest,  was  an  honest  hearted,  noble  fel- 
low, with  a  well-shaped  head,  and  almost  bald. 
He  was  a  man  of  exceeding  jest,  a  good  politician, 
and  a  decided  opponent  of  Governor  Clinton.  One 
of  his  greatest  sins  is  being  the  conductor  of  a 
popular  newspaper  in  New- York ;  but,  as  a  writer 
and  a  man  of  genius,  he  holds  a  very  respectable 
rank.    He  told  an  admirable  story,  knew  all  the 


310  CATSKILL. 

lions,  was  a  downright  yankee ;  and,  what  was 
better  than  all,  had  been  to  Catskill  often  afore- 
time, and  was  thus  excellently  well  fitted  for  tell- 
ing us  all  about  the  matter.    The  second  was  one 
of  those  generous,  high  souled  fellows,  who  re- 
main ever  the  same  to  j^ou,  through  all  the  wear 
and  tear  of  life;  one  M^ho  had  seen  much  of  the 
world  for  his  years,  and  who  could  laugh  at  its 
follies  with  infinite  glee,  and  ruffle  it  heartily  with 
all  he  met  in  it,  in  the  style  of  that  true  philoso- 
phy which  takes  things  as  they  come,  and  asks 
few  questions.     He  was  as  sl^m  as  any  genius  in 
the  world,  and  had  a  nose  that  bore  the  true  Wel- 
lington stamp.     He  was  as  fond  of  porter  as  an 
alderman,  and  sometimes  subject  to  the  heart- 
burn.    But  that  is  a  small  matter,  as  long  as  the 
heart  lies  in  the  right  place.  His  did  lie  so,  empha- 
tically.    The  third  was  a  law  student ;  a  young 
gentleman  of  talent,  and  of  a  philosophical  turn. 
He  had  a  keen  relish  for  a  joke ;  and  ^vith  his 
small  portion  of  tobacco  in  mouth,  seemed  to  en- 
joy equally  politics  or  puns.  Here,  then,  we  were 
congregate  with  much  company,  on  board  the 
steam-boat,   at  the  foot  of  Courtlandt-street,  on 
the  morning  aforesaid.     Our  object  was  a  visit  to 
the  Catskill  mountains,  and  we  had  determined  in 


CATSKILL.  311 

the  way  to  take  our  route  up  the  waters  of  the 
Hudson.     There  was  something  animating  in  the 
bustle  of  this  business.     In  a  slip  hard  by  lay  the 
Lady  Clinton,  also  full  of  merry  faces,  all  lighted 
up  with  the  excitement  of  the  occasion ;  and  on 
the  deck,  by  way  of  enticement,  a  fine  band  was 
thundering  away,  asking  every  one  to  bestow  his 
ziioney  where  he  might  have  music  as  well  as 
merriment.     For  our  OAvn  parts,  we  were  deter- 
mined to  remain  by  the  Constellation ;  and  in  a 
short  time  we  swung  off,  and  began  to  dash  up 
the  river.     It  would  be  swelling  this  description 
to  an  unmerciful  length,  to  dwell  upon  the  beau- 
ties and  wonders  that  are  continually  breaking 
upon  you  in  sailing  up  this  noble  stream.  Nature 
has  congregated  so  many  of  her  imposing  and 
glorious  things  here,  that  each  of  them  would  fur- 
nish a  volume,  and  still  half  the  story  would  be 
left  untold.     Nor  is  nature  alone  in  calling  upon 
your  deep  and  powerful  feelings.      Memory  is 
busy  with  the  traveller,  as  he  passes  scenes  around 
which  a  thousand  associations  cluster ;  and  the  re- 
collection of  revolutionary  times  lends  to  the 
banks  of  the  North   River   an  interest   hardly 
equalled,  certainly  not  surpassed.    Leaving  all 
these  things,  therefore,  to  be  viewed  by  the  pil- 


312  CATSKILL. 

grim,  rather  than  go  into  any  history  about  them, 
we  will,  with  permission,  land  the  gentle  reader 
at  once  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Hudson,  recom- 
mending to  him,  should  he  ever  be  inclined  to 
wend  this  way,  to  enter  himself  on  board  the 
aforementioned  boat,  where  Captain  Cruttenden 
(should  he  still  hold  his  place)  will  supply  him 
with  every  comfort  which  can  be  anticipated,  or 
which  can  result  from  good  living,  good  quarters, 
a  good  engine,  and  last,  not  least,  gentlemanly  at- 
tention. 

It  was  near  eleven  at  night,  when  we  arrived  at 
the  town  of  Catskill.  Here  a  spruce,  stirring, 
and,  above  all,  a  civil  and  obliging  landlord,  con- 
trived speedily  to  make  us  as  comfortable  as  rea- 
sonable men  could  wish  to  be.  We  were  by  no 
means  inclined  to  be  fastidious ;  for  to  persons 
who  have  been  fifteen  hours  under  the  influences 
of  a  hot  sun  and  hotter  boilers,  and  who  have  en- 
dured for  a  still  greater  length  of  time  the  trill  of  a 
steam-boat,  even  though  she  bear  them  over  wa- 
ters as  delightful  as  the  Hudson ;  to  such  persons 
a  still  bed  and  a  land  breeze  let  gently  in  at  the 
attic,  are  matters  generally  taken  advantage  of 
without  much  question  or  delay.  After  a  bad 
night's  rest,  the  misery  of  a  busy  and  popular  ho- 


OATfSKILL.  313 

tel,  we  started  at  six  A.  M.  on  a  tolerable  Sunday 
morning,  for  the  mountain  house,  or,  as  it  is  more 
singularly  and  unaccountably  termed,  the  Pine 
Orchard.  I  apprehend  this  cognomen  is  about 
as  legitimate  as  that  of  lake  applied  to  the  ponds 
in  England  and  Scotland ;  but  for  an  orchard  I  it 
would  have  puzzled  Master  Slender  himself  to 
make  out  the  case.  Slow,  silent,  and  sure,  we 
wound  our  way  along  a  rocky,  though  quite  a 
decent  and  comfortable  road  \  but  our  expectations 
were  somewhat  damped  and  dimmed  by  the  great 
thickness  of  the  atmosphere,  which  had  for  some 
time  been  unusually  smoky.  After  an  hour's  ride, 
the  hotel  was  descried  through  the  dense  air, 
planted  far  over  our  heads,  at  a  height  which,  at 
first  view,  astonishes  the  beholder.  He  is  not  pre- 
pared to  look  so  high  for  a  large  house,  and  a 
place  of  fashionable  resort ;  and  when  he  becomes 
satisfied  that  he  is  really  gazing  upon  the  moun- 
tain dwelhng,  he  almost  doubts  the  practicability 
of  attaining  it.  The  ascent  soon  became  tedious 
and  steep  ;  and,  to  those  of  us  who  had  been  ac- 
customed to  toil  to  loftier  eminences  by  a  mere 
footpath,  and  that  an  intolerable  one,  this  convey- 
ance by  carriage  over  a  comparatively  good  road; 
was  a  relief  of  which  we  were  peculiarly  sensible. 

27 


314  CATSKTLL. 

We  halted  at  Rip  Van  Winkle's.  This  august  per- 
sonage, who  sits  in  his  shanty  chair  with  all  the 
importance  of  one  who  has  suffered  classical  ca- 
nonization, met  us  with  much  solemnity  ;  and  it 
was  with  great  satisfaction  we  partook  of  the 
mountain  dew,  which  distilled  mysteriously  in  at 
his  window,  and  admirably  comported,  in  its  in- 
troduction, with  the  thousand  wonderments  that 
centre  round  the  old  man's  dwelling.  Having, 
like  good  pilgrims,  cut  our  canes,  we  left  him  in 
the  midst  of  a  story  about  a  sea  serpent,  which 
Rip  maintained  was  then  committing  divers  atro- 
cities in  Schoharie. 

Within  a  mile  of  our  destination,  on  a  gradual, 
though  a  short  descent,  we  were  brought  to  a 
sudden  and  splendid  view  of  the  mountain  house, 
literally  hanging,  like  some  brilliant  work  of  en- 
chantment, over  our  very  heads.  Perhaps  there 
is  no  point  at  which  the  mind  is  so  powerfully 
struck  with  the  temerity  of  man  as  at  this,  where 
a  massive  pile  is  seen  projected  by  him  to  the  very 
brink  of  a  yawning  precipice.  More  than  two 
hundred  feet  above  us  stood  this  building,  the 
abode  of  elegance  and  ease;  and  round  it  the 
bare  and  thunder-stricken  trees  were  lifting  them- 
selves J  and  above  and  below  lay  the  riven  rock^ 


CATSKILL.  315 

in  varied  and  indescribable  grandeur  ;  wnile,  to 
the  eye,  the  cliff  on  which  it  rested  seemed  but  a 
frail  spot  for  the  mansion  that  loomed  above  it. 
A  single  whirl  of  the  coach,  and  this  imposing 
scene  was  closed  on  us.  In  a  few  moments,  we 
alighted  in  front  of  the  hotel,  within  twenty  feet 
of  the  bold,  gray  precipice.  The  first  impression 
is  that  of  the  dangerous  location  of  this  house ; 
but,  when  the  eye  glances  at  the  solid  foundation 
on  which  it  rests,  you  feel  satisfied  that  nothing 
but  the  earthquake  can  shake  its  deep  and  endu- 
ring base. 

The  atmosphere  still  continuing  hazy,  we  could 
obtain  but  a  partial  and  indistinct  view  of  the 
country  below  us  through  such  a  medium. 
Enough,  however,  was  visible,  to  convince  us  that 
this  was  one  of  the  proud  places  of  nature  ;  and 
that  we  only  wanted  a  clear  air  and  an  unclouded 
sun  to  enable  us  to  gaze  out  upon  a  world  of  va- 
ried and  wonderful  beauty.  We  now  stood  on 
an  eminence  more  than  three  thousand  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  Hudson ;  and  I  believe  myself 
safe  in  saying,  that  the  earth  could  not  present  a 
scene  of  greater  sublimity,  softened  with  more 
delightful  traits  of  mellowness  and  richness.  Tlie 
fertility  of  the  landscape  on  the  North  River  is 


316  CATSKILL. 

proverbial.     One  can  scarcely  conceive  of  the  as- 
tonishing extent  of  elegant  cultivation  Avhich  un- 
bosoms itself  to  the  eye,  as  it  wanders  over  the 
teeming  land  from  this  vast  and  commanding  ele- 
vation.    On  the  day  after  our  arrival,  we  enjoyed 
this  prospect  in  all  its  unrivalled  magnificence. 
Beneath  our  feet  lay  the  villages  in  little  clusters, 
as  things  that  we  could  cover  or  remove  with  our 
hands.  The  broad  fields,  waving  with  all  the  opu- 
lence of  early  harvest,  were  contracted  into  spots 
of  singularly  mellowed  beauty,  as  the  brilliant 
sun  poured  his  rays  upon  them.  The  forests,  that 
would  seem  interminable  to  the  traveller,  pursu- 
ing his  way  through  their  intricacies  and  gloom, 
were  but  dark  lines  upon  the  map  that  was  un- 
rolled before  us  ;  and  under  us,  like  a  line  of  light 
upon  the  landscape,  lay  the  broad  North  River, 
glittering  as  it  stretched  away  among  its  hills,  un- 
til lost  in  the  immense  distance  that  it  brightened 
to  the  last.  On  its  narrow  and  silvered  bosom,  you 
might  discover  little  objects  moving  slowly  away, 
like  specks  upon  a  streamlet ;  and  sometimes  a 
small  black  vapour  would   seem  to  hover  over 
them,  or  stretch  itself  in  a  dull  line  behind  their 
weary  track.     Then  some  pigmy  sail  might  be 
seen  floating  on  those  distant  waters,  or  faintly  re- 


CATSKILL.  317 

lieved  against  the  dark  shores  between  which  it 
phed.  Should  you  lessen  the  distance  with  the 
telescope  which  lies  at  your  side,  you  w^ould  find 
these  atoms  coming  to  your  eye  in  form  very  like 
steam-boats  and  sloops,  that  are  ploughing  and 
smoking  along  a  mighty  river,  to  cities  and  towns 
which  a  moment  before  lay  like  points  under 
your  feet. 

Still  further  away,  the  mountains  of  some  sister 
state  were  seen  rising,  like  small  hills,  upon  the 
horizon.  In  some  distant  interval,  small,  dark 
clouds  were  hanging  over  the  land,  and  the  dim- 
ness that  sometimes  gathered  beneath  them,  di- 
rected us  at  once  to  the  spot  where  the  shower 
was  refreshing  a  portion  of  the  heated  country. 
But  the  eye  reposed  with  the  most  pleasing  satis- 
faction upon  the  cultivated  and  blooming  acres 
that  smiled  along  the  whole  region  which  it  com- 
manded ;  and  it  made  us  feel  proud  of  our  home, 
to  reflect  that  we  could  point  from  such  an  emi- 
nence to  such  a  scene,  and  tell  the  stranger  that 
this  was  but  one  of  the  beautiful  pictures  of  our 
native  land. 

At  sunrise,  we  were  gazing  upon  one  of  the 
most  grand  and  imposing  scenes  which  the  world 
ever  presented  to  painter  or  poet.    Immediately 

27* 


318  CATSKILL. 

below  us,  and  then  as  far  away  as  the  highlands 
that  embosom  the  Hudson,  lay  a  huge  and  undu- 
lating mass  of  fleecy  clouds,  veiling  the  landscape 
entirely,  and  presenting  to  the  most  unimpassion- 
ed  eye  a  striking  resemblance  of  a  silent  and  out- 
stretclied  ocean.  Anon,  as  the  wind,  moving 
amidst  and  below  them,  effected  a  change  in  their 
volumes,  the  green  and  variegated  earth  would 
burst  from  beneath  their  massy  folds,  and  for  a 
moment  lie  unveiled  before  you,  as  the  immense 
and  shifting  curtain  was  lifted  from  its  resting 
place.  Then  again  the  impenetrable  vapour 
would  settle  over  the  whole,  and  envelope  it,  as  it 
would  seem,  for  ever.  A  hundred  times  did  this 
glorious  scene  pass  before  us ;  until,  as  day  ad- 
vanced, the  vast  clouds  consolidated  into  gorgeous 
columns,  or,  taking  numberless  beautiful  and  fan- 
tastic forms,  swept  away  into  the  north,  to  descend 
in  rain  upon  the  distant  hills.  Around  and  above 
us  (for  this  is  not  the  highest  land  in  the  vicinity) 
every  thing  was  reposing  in  a  clear  and  dry  at- 
mosphere ;  and  it  was  delightful  to  observe  that, 
while  the  world  below  us  was  waking  to  a  dull, 
foggy,  heart-killing  morning,  here,  above  the 
clouds,  were  some  scores  of  good-natured,  down- 
right gentlemen  and  ladies,  early  risen  to  be  sure, 


CATSKILL.  319 

Willi  braced  spirits  and  bright  eyes,  chatting  over 
a  precipice,  upon  a  modern  settee,  drawn  within 
four  feet  of  its  verge,  and  laugliing,  and  exclaim- 
ing, and  roaring  (genteelly)  with  all  their  might, 
over  a  sea  of  clouds  tost  into  a  storm  underneath 
them — piercing  the  mass  of  mist,  now  with  a  peal 
of  merriment,  and  now  with  a  projectile,  and  at 
last  turning  from  cliff  to  breakfast-hall,  with  no 
more  feeling  of  Olympus  on  Catskill,  than  they 
had  had  of  comfort  at  Saratoga!  Ehue! — what 
mundane  creatures  some  of  us  are  I 

Ingrediturque  solo,  caput  inter  nubila  condit. 

A  chief  amusement  with  all  true  travellers  at 
Catskill,  consists  in  casting  stones,  or  rocks,  insiar 
montis,  over  the  cliffs,  and  watching  their  course 
as  they  go  smoking  and  thundering  into  the  ra- 
vine. Much  does  it  shame  me  to  say,  that  in  this 
species  of  delight  did  our  party  spend  some  hours 
of  the  Sabbath  after  our  arrival.  Though  there 
was  something  grand  in  witnessing  the  posthaste 
with  which  the  rocks  projected  made  their  way 
into  the  depths  below,  leaping  from  precipice, 
hundreds  of  feet,  to  precipice  beneath,  and  rat- 
tling and  crashing  into  the  valleys;  still  there 
was  something  irresistibly  ludicrous  in  the  inli- 


320  CATSKILL. 

nite  pains  taken  by  some  of  us  to  effect  all  this, 
A  long  armed  Southerner  did  the  business  best. 
He  would  dig   out  the  ledge  like  Polyphemus. 
Our  law  student  thought  it  matter  of  trespass,  and 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but  to  look  on 
and  enjoy  it.     My  friend  in  the  Wellington  nose 
worked  well,  and  spared  not,— soiling  his  hands 
as  he  rolled  heavy  masses  among  the  burnt  bushes, 
and  taking  no  note  of  the  day,— while  the  edi- 
tor, to  his  shame  be  it  spoken,  would  not  lift  a 
finger  in  the  business,  after  the  first  essay,  because, 
forsooth,  his  white  pantaloons  had  suffered  mate- 
rial detriment  in  contact  with  the  snmtty  points 
of  the  pestilent  bushes.     For  myself,  as  I  was  to 
give  a  description  of  the  whole  thing  to  the  world, 
it  was  no  more  than   right  and  natural  that  I 
should  stand  in  my  Florence  fiannel  jacket,  a 
calm  and  silent  spectator.  Thus  historians  should 
ever  do. 

On  the  following  morning,  after  a  walk  of  two 
miles,  we  reached  the  Falls.  The  approach  to 
this  spot  might  be  made  much  more  convenient — 
and  it  should  be ;  for  to  ladies,  it  is  one  of  the  worst 
of  pilgrimages ;  especially  to  those  of  the  beauti- 
ful who  are  not  Dianas  in  the  art  of  threading 
woods,  or  who  have  fallen  off"  from  the  good  old 


CATSKILL,  321 

custom  of  wearing  thick-soled  shoes  on  tremen- 
dous occELsions.  The  carriage  to  the  falls  was  bad 
enough :  it  is  reasonable  enough  to  wish  that  the 
path  near  them  may  be  made  better.  Meanwhile, 
if  improvement  have  taken  place  in  that  quarter, 
in  these  particulars,  like  honourable  men,  our 
whole  party  begs  pardon  of  the  authorities,  as  in 
duty  bound.  But  I  will  introduce  the  reader  to 
this  grand  and  extraordinary  spectacle.  We  first 
came  to  the  verge  of  the  precipice,  from  which  the 
water  takes  its  leap  upon  a  platfonii  that  projects 
with  the  rock  many  feet  over  the  chasm.  Here 
we  gazed  into  the  dell  and  the  basin  into  which 
the  stream  pours  itself  from  the  beetling  cliff.  But 
the  prospect  from  this  point  is  far  less  thrilling 
than  from  below ;  and  we  accordingly  began  our 
descent.  Winding  round  the  crags,  and  following 
a  foot-path  between  the  overhanging  trees,  we 
gradually  and  with  some  difficulty  descended  so 
far  as  to  have  a  fine  view  of  the  station  which  we 
had  just  left.  The  scene  here  is  m.agnificent  be- 
yond description.  Far  under  the  blackened  cano- 
py of  everlasting  rock  that  shoots  above  to  an 
alarming  extent  over  the  abyss,  the  eye  glances 
round  a  vast  and  regular  amphitheatre,  which 
fseems  to  be  the  wild  assembling-place  of  all  the 


322  CATSKILL. 

spirits  of  the  storms, — so  rugged,  so  deep,  so  se- 
cluded, and  yet  so  threatening  does  it  appear! 
Down  from  the  midst  of  the  cliff  that  overarches 
this  wonderful  excavation,  and  dividing  in  the 
midst  the  gloom  that  seems  to  settle  within  it, 
comes  the  foaming  torrent,  splendidly  relieved 
upon  the  black  surface  of  the  enduring  walls,  and 
throwing  its  wreaths  of  mist  along  the  frowning 
ceiling.  Following  the  guide  that  had  brought 
us  thus  far  down  the  chasm,  we  passed  into  the 
amphitheatre,  and,  moving  under  the  terrific  pro- 
jection, stood  in  the  centre  of  this  sublime  and 
stupendous  work  ; — the  black  iron-bound  rocks 
behind  us,  and  the  snowy  cataract  springing  be- 
tween us  and  the  boiling  basin,  which  still  lay 
under  our  feet.  Here  the  scene  was  unparalleled 
Here  seemed  to  be  the  theatre  for  a  people  to  stand 
in,  and  behold  the  prodigies  and  fearful  wonders 
of  the  Almighty,  and  feel  their  o^\^l  insignificance. 
Here  admiration  and  astoni-shment  come  unbidden 
over  the  soul,  and  the  most  obdurate  heart  feels 
that  there  is  something  to  be  grateful  for.  Indeed, 
the  scene  from  this  spot  is  so  sublime  and  so  well 
calculated  to  impress  the  feelings  with  a  sense  of 
the  power  and  grandeur  of  nature,  that,  apart  from 
all  other  considerations,  it  is  worthy  of  long  jour- 


CATSKILL.  323 

neying  and  extreme  toil  to  behold  it.  Having  ta- 
ken refreshment,  very  adroitly  managed  to  be  con- 
veyed to  us  from  above  by  John, — whom,  by  the 
way,  I  would  name  as  an  excellent  guide  as  well 
as  a  reputable  boy, — we  descended  to  the  extreme 
depth  of  the  ravine,  and,  with  certain  heroic  la- 
dies, who  somehow  dared  the  perils  of  the  path, 
we  gazed  from  this  place  upon  the  sheet  of  wa- 
ter, falling  from  a  height  of  more  than  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet.  This  is  a  matter  of  which 
Niagara  would  not  speak  lightly;  and  there  is 
wanting  only  a  heavy  fall  of  water  to  make  this 
spot,  not  only  magnificent, — for  that  it  is  now, — 
but  terribly  sublime.  Mountains  ascend  and  over- 
shadow it ;  crags  and  precipices  project  them- 
selves in  menacing  assemblage  all  about,  as  though 
fro\vning  over  a  ruin  which  they  are  only  waiting 
some  fiat  to  make  yet  more  appalling.  Nature 
has  hewed  out  a  resting  place  for  man,  where  he 
may  linger,  and  gaze,  and  admire !  below  him 
she  awakens  her  thunder  and  darts  her  lightning, 
above  him  she  lifts  still  loftier  summits,  and 
round  him  she  flings  her  spray  and  her  rain- 
bows ! 

It  was  with  reluctance  we  quitted  a  scene  of 
such  surpassmg  and  varied  grandeur.  A  toilsome 


324  CATSfvlLL, 

ascent  was  at  length  effected,  and  the  experiment 
of  lowering  refreshment  from  the  heights,  in  a 
basket,  was  repeated,  to  the  satisfaction  of  many 
who  were  not  content  with  the  exhilarating  prin- 
ciple of  simple  port  and  fountain  water.  We  now 
stood  on  what  may  be  termed  the  table  rock  j 
and,  after  calling  to  mind,  as  our  basket  went  up, 
the  gatherers  of  "  samphire"  on  the  cliff  of  Dover, 
and  amusing  ourselves  with  thundering  a  few 
roeks  into  the  abyss,  we  again  ascended,  and  en- 
dured a  conveyance  back  to  the  mountain  house. 
Having  taken  an  excellent  dinner,  whereat  the 
editor  immortalized  himself  by  exhibiting  to  a 
large  table  the  method  of  uncorking  stale  cham- 
paign, at  four  P.  M.  we  bade  adieu  to  the  mansion 
and  the  clouds,  and  to  No.  35,  and  thereabouts^ 
whisked  by  Rip,  still  maintaining  stern  state  by 
his  counter — rushed  into  the  warm  latitudes — em- 
barked late  at  night  on  board  the  Chief  Justice 
Marshall,  in  the  midst  of  thunder  and  lightning, 
the  roar  of  steam,  two  cases  of  elegant  distress, 
and  a  numerous  company,  and  early  next  morn- 
ing were  landed,  safe,  comfortable,  and  delighted, 
in  the  noisy  city  of  Gotham. 


1  » 


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t  t  r  ' 

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t   (   t  < 

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^i;: 


MRS.    HEMANS.  325 


MRS.    HEMANS. 


This  eminent  female  poetic  A^Titer  was  born 
in  Duke  Street,  Liverpool,  25th  September, 
1794.  Her  maiden  name  was  Felicia  Doro- 
thea Browne.  Her  father  was  a  native  of  Ire- 
land; her  mother  was  a  German  lady,  a  Miss 
Wagner,  but  descended  from  a  Venetian  family. 
To  these  circumstances  Mrs.  Hemans  would 
often  playfully  allude  as  accounting  for  the 
strong  tinge  of  romance  and  poetry  which  per- 
vaded her  character  from  her  earliest  years. 
Another  circumstance  which  undoubtedly  ope- 
rated strongly  in  the  development  of  these 
traits,  was  the^  removal  of  her  family,  when 
she  was  only  five  years  of  age,  to  Denbigh- 
shire, in  North  Wales.  That  land  of  wild 
mountain  scenery  and  ancient  minstrelsy  was 
the  fitting  place  to  impart  sublimity  to  her 
youthful  fancies,  and  elevate  her  feelings  with 
the  glow  of  patriotism  and  devotion. 

In  the  year  1812,  at  the  early  age  of  seven- 
teen, she  was  married  to  Capt.  Hemans,  of  the 


326  MRS.   HEMANS. 

Fourth  Regiment,  and  settled  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  St.  Asaphs — but  her  married  life  was 
not  happy.  This  domestic  infelicity  was  to  her 
a  most  painful  subject,  one  to  which  she  could 
bear  no  allusion  ;  and  the  tenderness  and  for- 
bearance with  which  she,  while  living,  treated 
the  faults  of  her  husband,  render  it  the  duty  of 
those  who  love  her  memory  to  forbear,  as  far 
as  possible,  from  adverting  to  scenes  and  suf- 
ferinofs  that  so  tried  and  tortured  her  sensitive 
heart.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  her  husband  left 
her  and  his  five  young  sons  to  struggle  as  they 
might  with  sorrow  and  the  cold,  selfish  world. 
Mrs.  Hemans  continued  to  reside  at  "  Rhyllon, 
near  St.  Asaphs,"  with  her  mother.  This  was 
her  most  favorite  residence,  where  she  \vrote 
many  of  her  best  poems. 

A  small  woodland  dingle  near  Rhyllon  was 
her  favorite  retreat.  Here  she  would  spend 
long  summer  mornings  to  read  and  project  and 
compose,  while  her  children  played  about  her. 
"  Whenever  one  of  us  brought  her  a  flower," 
writes  one  of  them,  "  she  was  sure  to  introduce 
it  into  her  next  poem." 

After  the  death  of  her  mother,  Mrs.  Hemans 


MRS.    HEMANS.  327 

removed  to  Waverlree,  near  Liverpool,  where 
she  resided  about  three  years^  and  then  again 
removed  to  Dublin,  where  the  expense  of  edu- 
cating her  sons  would,  she  foimd,  be  more 
within  her  means.  But  sorrow,  care,  and  the 
"  wasting  task  and  lone  "  of  her  minstrel  voca- 
tion, had  brought  on  a  deep  disease,  which  the 
sympathy  of  friends  (and  who  that  ever  read 
the  outpourings  of  her  soul  was  not  her  friend  ?) 
could  not  alleviate  or  remove.  She  closed  her 
life  May  30th,  1835,  "  and  died  as  stars  go 
down,"  her  genius  bright  and  expanding  to  the 
last,  and  trust  in  her  Redeemer  calming  every 
fear,  and  cheering  the  darkness  of  the  tomb 
with  the  holy  light  of  faith  and  love.  She  has 
gone  from  us,  but  the  light  of  her  genius  will 
never  be  dimmed,  nor  the  song  of  her  harp  for- 
gotten. She  has  thrilled  those  chords  of  the 
human  soul  which,  while  the  race  of  man  con- 
tinues, cannot  but  respond  to  her  sentiments. 
Love,  in  all  its  purest,  holiest,  sweetest  emo- 
tions of  household  affections,  patriotism,  and 
devotion,  was  the  mighty  spell  by  which  she 
wrought,  and  till  love  shall  cease  from  earth 
her  name  can  never  die. 


328 


THE    CHARNEL    SHIP. 


THE  CHARNEL  SHIP. 

The  Charleston  Courier  of  the  20th  December,  1828,  containa 
the  account  of  a  vessel  discovered  in  1773,  by  a  Greenland  whale 
ship.  It  had  been  for  seventeen  years  frozen  up  among  the  ice- 
bergs in  the  North  Polar  Sea ;  and,  when  found,  the  corses  of  seve- 
ral persons,  in  an  almost  perfect  state  of  preservation,  were  on 
board.  Those  of  the  master,  his  wife,  and  a  man  with  a  book,  in 
which  he  had  probably  been  writing  when  he  died,  particularly 
attracted  the  attention  of  Captain  Warren  and  his  men. 

The  night — the  long  dark  night — at  last 

Passed  fearfully  away  -, 
'Mid  crashing  ice  and  howling  blast 

They  hailed  the  da^oi  of  day, 
Which  broke  to  cheer  the  whaler's  crew, 
And  wide  around  its  gray  light  threw. 

The  storm  had  ceased — its  wrath  had  rent 

The  icy  wall  asunder — 
And  many  a  piercing  glance  they  sent 

Around  in  awe  and  wonder ; 
And  sailor  hearts  their  rude  praise  gave 
To  God,  that  morn,  from  o'er  the  wave. 

The  breeze  blew  freshly,  and  the  sun 

Poured  his  full  radiance  far 
On  heaps  of  icy  fragments,  won — 

Sad  trophies — in  the  past  night's  war 
Of  winds  and  waters,  and  in  piles 
Now  drifted  by  bright  shining  isles ! 


THE    CHARNEL    SHIP.  329 

But,  lo  !  Still  farther  off  appears 

A  form,  more  dim  and  dark ; 
And  anxious  eyes — and  hopes,  and  fears 

Its  slow,  strange  progress  mark. 
It  moves  towards  them — by  the  breeze 
Borne  onward  from  more  northern  seas. 

Near,  and  more  near — and  can  it  be, 

More  vent'rous  than  their  own, 
A  Ship,  whose  seeming  ghost  they  see 

Among  the  icebergs  thrown — 
With  broken  masts — dismantled  all, 
And  dark  sails  like  a  funeral  pall  ? 

"  God  of  the  mariner !  protect 

Her  inmates,  as^he  moves  along 
Through  perils,  wnich  ere  now  had  wrecked, 

But  that  thine  arm  is  strong ! " 
Hal  she  has  struck — she  grounds — she  stands 
Still — as  if  held  by  giant  hands  ! 

"  Quick,  man  the  boat" — away  they  sprang, 

The  stranger  ship  to  aid, 
And  loud  their  hailing  voices  rang, 

And  rapid  speed  they  made  ; 
But  all  in  silence,  deep,  unbroke, 
The  vessel  stood — none  answering  spoke. 

'Twas  fearful !  not  a  sound  arose — 
No  moving  thing  was  there, 


' 


330  THE    CHARNEL    SHIP. 

To  interrupt  the  dread  repose 

Which  filled  each  heart  with  fear. 
On  deck  they  silent  stepped — and  sought, 
Till  one;  a  man.  their  sad  sight  caught. 

He  was  alone — the  damp-chill  mould 

Of  years  hung  on  his  cheek  ; 
While  the  pen  within  his  hand  had  told 

The  tale  no  voice  might  speak  : 
"  Seventy  days,"  the  record  stood — 
"  We  have  been  in  the  ice,  and  wanted  food  !  " 

They  took  his  book,  and  turned  away, 

But  soon  discovered  where 
The  wife,  in  her  death-sleep,  gently  lay 

Near  him  in  life  most  dear — 
Who,  seated  beside  his  you^  heart's  pride, 
Long  years  before  had  calmly  died. 

Oh,  wedded  love  !  how  beautiful, 

How  pure  a  thing  thou  art. 
Whose  influence  e'en  in  death  can  rule 

And  triumph  o'er  the  heart ; 
Can  cheer  life's  roughest  walk,  and  shed 
A  holy  light  around  the  dead ! 

There  was  a  solemn,  sacred  feeling 

Kindled  in  every  breast, 
And,  softly  from  the  cabin  stealing 

They  left  them  to  their  rest ; 
The  fair,  the  young,  the  constant  pair — 
They  left  them  with  a  blessing  there. 


THE    CHARNEL    SHIP.  331 

And  to  their  boat  returning,  each 

With  thoughtful  brows,  and  haste, 
And  o'ercharged  hearts,  too  full  for  speech, 

Left  'midst  the  frozen  waste 
That  charnel  ship,  which  years  before 
Had  sailed  from  distant  Albion's  shore. 

They  left  her  in  the  icebergs,  where 

Few  venture  to  intrude, 
A  monument  of  death  and  fear, 

'Midst  Ocean's  solitude ; 
And,  grateful  for  their  own  release, 
Thanked  God,  and  sought  their  homes  in  peace. 


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